The apple thief
by headless-nic
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a curious little boy of almost seven who in his curiosity gets up to all kinds of mischief. His favourite pastime? Solving mysteries of course! - as one day, he wants to be a really good detective. Set in rural England in the 1860ies.
1. The apple thief

**The apple thief**

„Sherlock Holmes, come down this instant!" a boy of about thirteen, whose cap had just been snatched by a nimble hand out of the blue, cried angrily.

"Come and get me, you lazy sod." a laughing voice answered from out of the canopy of a large apple tree, the young lad had been sitting under, reading.

"You bet I come up there, Sherlock." he threatened, torn between annoyance and amusement. When the head of the culprit appeared above him, blowing him a raspberry, he flung the book aside and reached for the nearest branch, pulling himself up deftly, while his naked feet pressed against the rough bark of the tree trunk. He was in the branches himself quickly, chasing after his younger and agiler brother.

"I'll get you eventually." Mycroft Holmes gasped, while the smaller boy had climbed even higher and out of reach. The little rascal knew all too well, Mycroft did not like to be too far above the ground. He was saved from his dilemma whether he should follow or leave the boy be for the time being, by the voice of his uncle.

"Mycroft, Sherlock! Come down, NOW!" the words were stern, but the voice did not sound quite as angry as they would suggest. There was a gleam in the eye of the young man, that told both boys, that their uncle was determined to get them out of the tree, but no punishment would follow.

Sherlock was down first, while Mycroft struggled slightly, not having realised how high up he had actually climbed.

"Sherlock! I told you not to climb up this particular tree, now, didn't I?"

"Yes, Uncle Aldwin, I am sorry." the six-year-old bend his head – but rather to hide the smirk that played on his handsome features, than out of shame.

His uncle, a man in his early thirties was wise enough not to trust this perfect picture of submission. Lifting the chin of his little ward, he was met with a rueful grin and a pair of grey sparkling eyes that betrayed the imp within.

"And why did you do it then?" he was asked, as his brother had finally managed to get safely to the ground as well.

"I wanted to play with Mycroft, but all he does since he has returned from school is read, read and read again." the child looked exasperated now. "Can a book be really this interesting as to prefer reading to climbing trees or catching frogs or…?"

"Ah, so that was you as well? I should have thought so." Aldwin Holmes interjected, chuckling.

"What was Sherlock up to again?"

"Putting frogs in Kitty's chamberpot. You should have heard her scream!" the youngest Holmes answered sheepishly with a blush on his cheeks, "But I did not do it on purpose! When I came in, I realised I still had the frogs in my trouser pockets and suddenly I heard Kitty come into the laundry and I know how much she hates frogs and I did not want to frighten her and then I saw the cleaned chamberpots (1) and quickly slipped them in there. Unfortunately, I forgot about them…."

His uncle desperately tried not to look at him, so he would not burst out laughing but to no avail.

Kitty was the not so popular maid that had been hired when the boys first came to live with their uncle. She was a nice enough person, but she had no patience for the tricks and hoaxes the two boys were constantly playing on one another and most of the time on her. A year ago, Mycroft had been sent to school, but it was the younger, who was more challenging and it did not help, that the uncle was not any better with his odd sense of humour.

When all three had stopped their giggles and laughter, Uncle Aldwin once more became stern.

"So, once again, you can climb any tree on the grounds, apart from this one. Is that understood!"

Both boys nodded, but it was clear, that Sherlock would not be satisfied by the mere order.

"Uncle Aldwin, why are we not allowed to go into this tree?" he asked, reluctantly. But with a curiosity that demanded an answer.

"Because this is my best tree – and may I remind you, that both of you are very fond of these particular apples? And they are almost ripe, perhaps another week and we can harvest them. But climbing around in the branches will make them fall off and then they will not be half as nice as when plucked straight from the tree. Anyway, it seems, that this is quite a rare sort of apple and I have agreed to sell a quarter of the harvest from it, to a botanist for his studies. So, that means, we have to make do with the remaining – how many?"

He looked at his perplexed older nephew.

"That would make three quarters. But wouldn't that still be a load of apples!"

"Yes, it would, technically. If I would not also need to hand over a third to Mrs Nichols, which leaves?"

Again he glanced expectantly at Mycroft, who answered promptly: "Well, that would make it seven twelfth that we would have to give away, which is more than half of the apples."

"Exactly."

"But why does Mrs Nichols need all these apples. She's got a big garden herself." The younger master Holmes piped up.

"Because we have rented the property from her and it was one of her terms, Sherlock."

"But the other trees are all right to climb?"

"If that is your only worry… - yes, they are." the man sighed and an expression of worry crossed his intelligent face.

While Mycroft returned to his book, much to his little brother's dismay, sitting down decidedly under the very same tree he was now banned from, Sherlock ventured towards the little brook, a little further down the orchard that belonged to The Meadows, the small farmhouse they lived in.

Jumping into the shallow water with a splash, he began rummaging through the stones to hunt down some crayfish. As he had forgotten, that a bucket might come in handy, he used his straw hat instead and soon the first crayfish was imprisoned in it. Of this straw hat, little Sherlock Holmes was mightily proud. It once had belonged to his uncle, but after it had become too shabby for him to wear with any dignity, he had given it to his nephew. It was slightly too big for the small boys head, and only his ears held it up to a degree that made him able to peek out from underneath its broad rim.

In a short while, his hat was filled with the unassuming creatures, and just as he wanted to climb up the bank of the small ditch, Kitty came into view.

"Sherlock Holmes!" she screeched, and he knew he was in trouble again. Ducking his head he all but disappeared, had it not been for the shock of brown hair that stood out against the green of the grass and told the livid lady, where she would find the little tyke.

When her shadow began looming over him, he looked up and into her face and before he could help it, he burst out laughing in delight. It had really worked!

"Look at my face!" she demanded, which he thought rather silly, considering that he was doing just that and with great entertainment. Her face had deep rusty brown patches all over, some more prominent than others and the same applied to her neck, her hands and her lower arms as she had rolled up her sleeves.

By now Mycroft had arrived at the scene and with the noise that woman made, Sherlock was sure his uncle would be back soon, as well. Perplexed he stared at the steaming maid.

"I've had it! Are you happy now, you little devil?" she all but yelled.

"I never thought it would work so well," he admitted, with a sheepish expression.

And really, he had not. Who would have thought after all, that the finely grated outer shell of such a common thing as a walnut, would give such a nice effect when added to soap? It had been a fairly tricky affair, to be honest, but the result indeed was worth one's while.

Behind Kitty's back, Mycroft bit his lip, but the way he trembled, told the young convict, that he too, found it immensely funny.

"I will leave this house today!" she at last spat and stomped back towards the house.

Handing his brother his hat with the crawling crayfish, at last, Sherlock climbed up the steep bank.

"How on earth did you manage to do that?" his bemused sibling wondered.

"Oh, nothing more simple than that," the boy replied, sitting down in the grass, his feet dangling over the water, "the other day I wanted to see, whether the walnuts were ripe already and I picked a few. They were not ripe." He made a little face.

Mycroft, who had sat down next to his brother, grinned. "You are too impatient, they won't be ripe until the beginning of October. And it is only the end of August."

"Yes, but I wanted to have a look all the same. Anyway, when I peeled off the husk, my fingers turned all brown and I could not wash it off, no matter how much I scrubbed and no matter how much soap I used."

"Let me guess, and then you got the brilliant idea of mixing the two things together?"

"Exactly! It was quite some work, I tell you, but I think it was worth it," he exclaimed while examining one of the crayfish more closely.

"So, you think so, William Sherlock Holmes!" the voice of his uncle sounded from behind them.

Oh-oh! It never boded well, when his uncle used his full name. Slowly both boys turned around to see the displeased man stand there with his arms crossed in front of him and his legs firmly on the ground. Looking like that, their uncle could be quite intimidating.

"I demand an apology! NOW!"

Hastily, Sherlock scrambled to his feet, his head hanging, this time in actual shame. He had only wanted to see if the combination of the walnut husk and the soap would still have the same effect than the peel alone. It had and he was happy with the result. That he would anger someone with it, he had not considered and he now felt quite wretched.

"Sorry, Uncle Aldwin," he mumbled. As his gaze was still cast at his feet, he did not see the light twitch at the man's corner of the mouth.

"I accept your apology, Sherlock. But you will also have to make amends with Kitty," he said, in a kind but firm voice.

For a moment the child contemplated to argue about the necessity of it, but despite the small smile that now graced his uncle's face, he knew he would not get out of it. Begrudgingly he trotted towards the house.

xxx

It was late in the evening, and both brothers had already slept, the smaller one had migrated to his elder brothers bed, where they had been chatting till at long last their eyes had drooped and they had fallen asleep when suddenly a loud scream pierced the dead of the night.

"What was that?" a scared Sherlock asked, clinging to his sibling, who was rubbing his eyes drowsily.

"I think that was Kitty," Mycroft mumbled.

"Again? I did not do anything."

Mycroft laughed softly, knowing that more often than not, that was not quite true. His little brother was quite a prankster when it came to it.

Hasty footsteps walked past their room and down the creaky stairs and some minutes later they returned and the door to their bedroom opened.

"What has happened?" Mycroft asked anxiously.

"Mycroft, where was it, that you put Sherlock's hat when we came in?" Aldwin asked, sounding neither angry nor amused but just tired.

"Why I put it in the kitchen, I cannot remember where exactly..."

"I tell you, it was on purpose!" the plump girl insisted, looking defiantly from one Holmes to the other. "He wanted me to be pinched by these horrible creatures, they are both equally devious."

"They are nothing of the kind!" the young man said with emphasis. "And in this case, I am as guilty as any of them. I knew Sherlock had collected the crayfish and I have asked Mycroft to bring the hat with him and just when we entered the kitchen, you told us dinner was ready and I told him to wash his hands and not to mind the hat for the moment."

"And how did they end up in my bed then?"

"I do not know." the youngster stammered.

"I think I do," Sherlock remarked thoughtfully. "Your sleeping bench (2) was open because you have put away the laundry and I think Mycroft might have put it on the bench not seeing it was not closed."

"See, I told you, they did not do it purposely. I suggest we all give you a hand with searching for the stray creatures and then we go to bed again."

When next morning the sun rose to another beautiful summer day, Sherlock Holmes slipped out of bed and after having dressed, out of the house, taking the milk churn from its hook next to the cellar door to pick up their share of fresh milk.

Peter, the farmer's boy – and incidentally Kitty's brother helped him milk the cow, an uncomplaining creature only too happy to be relieved from her surplus of milk.

"You are getting quite good, little Imp." the good-natured boy said jovially.

"One day I am going to be a farmer." the child beamed at him, caressing the flank of the tan coloured Jersey cow.

"I don't think your uncle will be too pleased with your choice, Imp." Peter laughed. "I don't think you'll get away with spending your days in a farmyard. You'll be sent to school just like your brother and after that, you'll be too spoiled to be a farmer, let me tell you."

"But I don't want to go to school. I mean, I am going to school already, why should I go somewhere else?"

"Your uncle is a good teacher," the boy admitted, "but a decent boarding school is just not the same. I wish I could go to one. There is so much more to learn, Imp, so much more to see."

"Don't you want to be a farmer then?"

"I would like to be an explorer and travel through all the world." was the answer, that would busy the younger boy throughout the day.

The breakfast and his lessons passed in a blur and it was lucky he was quick on the uptake or else he would have been in trouble. But so, as soon as school (3) was finished, Sherlock dashed outside only to find his brother once again sitting in the grass with his nose stuck in a book.

"Why are you always reading?" he asked in exasperation. "Can we not ramble around the copse? I want to explore a bit."

"Sure." was the answer he had least expected, not knowing that his uncle had asked his brother, to spend a little more time with him, mainly because in his boredom the little tyke would get himself into constant trouble. "I've had enough of Latin for today."

"Why do you need to learn a language that no-one speaks anymore anyway? It's not as if it will ever help you ask for the way."

Mycroft only smiled at his brothers simple puerile logic. There was certainly something to it. But if only everything was that simple.

xxx

The week passed relatively peacefully, at least for the Holmes household and it was rather unlucky, that out of all people, it was Kitty, that was caught in yet another incident. During their rambles through the countryside, sometimes with other children, sometimes on their own, Mycroft had tried to acquaint his younger brother with the benefits of a good book and when they had retired that night, he had pulled out his chemistry book and while Sherlock listened in awe, Mycroft had explained a few of the experiments described there.

"And they really work?" he whispered keenly, eager to try them for himself.

"Yes, you can bet they do." Mycroft had answered sleepily, putting away the book and wrapping an arm around his brother, nuzzling the top of the boys head.

"You are the best brother in the world." the six-year-old mumbled, snuggling up to the tall teenager.

"And so are you, little one."

It was then, that they had come home, to find the maid baking a cake. And remembering the book from the night before, Sherlock had been rather keen on trying out if baking powder and vinegar really would make bubbles. In an unattended moment, he poured some of the powder into a cup and walked over to the larder to retrieve the necessary vinegar. Putting both down on the kitchen bench, which was more practical for him for its lower hight, he carefully poured a generous amount of vinegar into the cup. He had not needed to be so careful because as soon as the vinegar touched the sodium it hissed and a cascade of bubbles burst over the rim of the small vessel and seeped into the storage area below the seating.

"Oh-oh!" he muttered, pressing the palm of his hand over the opening. It worked for a short moment before the frothing substance quelled through between his fingers. And for sure, his uncle used exactly that moment to come into the kitchen.

He saw the sheepish face, the mess on the bench and the white bubbles protruding from the cup and in exasperation sank his face into his hands. Once more it did not do, he just could not help laughing. It was just impossible what the boy got into his head. - He vividly remembered the cloud of flour evaporating from the trumpet he signalled the end of the break with. They had then just moved in and in a bout of curiosity, the child had wanted to see what would happen if a powdery substance was blown from out of something. And coincidentally the something at hand had been said trumpet. Aldwin had found it necessary after that incident, to refrain from the afternoon lessons. When the children had returned, they had found a thoroughly perplexed though amused teacher and a white substance that covered half the schoolroom and all of the front of said teacher as the draught from the open door had blown the flour back at him.

xxx

At long last, the day of apple harvest had come and with it a days holiday. It was a sunny Friday and the sun rose once again to a glorious morning. Sherlock, as he did every morning had gone to get the milk from the farm across the field and as always had milked the cow himself. Excitedly he had told Peter about the upcoming apple harvest and Jack, the farm labourer had wished them good luck, as he was sure there would be a thunderstorm in the evening.

Sherlock, running home as quick as was possible with a milk churn brimming with cow warm milk, was greeted by his uncle, who, normally impeccably attired, wore a striped shirt with neither cuffs nor collar, but its sleeves rolled up, a pair of old and worn grey trousers held up by a pair of braces and neither shoes nor socks, and hence looking much like the little rascal facing him – just a lot taller and without a straw hat on his dark and unruly hair.

"Mycroft is already outside, bringing the baskets and crates out. Have you had anything to eat?"

"No, but I am not hungry. - And I can just as well eat an apple or two." his little face shone with excitement and anticipation.

"All right, then let's get going. Take some water, will you? It's getting hot again today. I'll take the ladder."

"Jack said there will be a thunderstorm tonight." the nephew remarked, lumbering into the laundry where he knew he would find a bucket. Pumping water into the zinc vessel, he watched Kitty get ready for wash day on Monday, soaking the dirty clothes the boys had left her with. Grumbling she acknowledged her nemesis, before returning to her thankless task. And the boy wondered how such a sour lass could have such a friendly brother. Perhaps the stork had erred and made the wrong delivery, he mused, giggling.

"What are you up to now?" a distrustful maid asked her hands deep in the water in the pewter kettle.

"Nothing." came the absent-minded reply, which did not help in settling the girl's uneasiness.

Aldwin Holmes had already leaned the long wooden ladder against their favourite apple tree and was about to climb up it, with one of the baskets and a hook to hang it up in the branches, while Mycroft still carried crate after crate out of the shed and onto the flower-strewn lawn, a daisy in his mouth.

"Ah, there you are." the young uncle smiled, amused at his red-faced nephew struggling with the heavy bucket.

They worked meticulously, trying to harvest even the last of the valuable apples and while Sherlock had climbed up with a small pannier strapped to his back, reaching for the fruits that otherwise would have been out of reach, his uncle kept to the ladder and the steadier branches, while Mycroft stayed comfortably on the ground, taking the filled baskets from the other two and dividing them equally into the crates. He had done as his uncle had suggested, laying out twelve of them of which three would go to said botanist, four to Mrs Nichols and five would be for them. When by ten in the morning the first tree was cleared of apples, Uncle Aldwin decided it was time for a break. It had gotten almost unbearably hot and the man shooed his nephews ahead of himself in the direction of the little running water.

"In with you!" he yelled, before jumping in himself with a big splash, splattering the boys with the cool liquid. Screeching they followed and soon were duly refreshed.

"Let's have a drink then. Did you bring a mug?"

Sherlock nodded his head, the water dripping off his hair.

"Good."

Dipping in the enamel cup the man took a big gulp, made a disgusted face, before spitting out the liquid in an impressive fountain.

"What's the matter?" Mycroft asked, perplexed.

"Your brother has managed to take the bucket in which Kitty cleans the chamber pots…" he trailed off, wiping his tongue on his shirt sleeve, but with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mycroft laughed shaking his head, while his brother looked somewhat embarrassed.

Defiantly he lifted his chin, before stating, that it could have happened to anyone.

As morning turned into noon and noon into afternoon, the farm labourer was proven right, in his prediction. From afar the low rumble of thunder could be heard and as fast as they could, the three Master's Holmes carried back the crates into the shed, where they would be safe during the storm. They were just in time when the first drops of heavy rain pattered down on them.

xxx

The next morning, the air was clear and the sky as blue as could be. With a handcart and a wheelbarrow, Aldwin and the boys set off to deliver their due to their landlady, a stern woman of foreboding character. She had been fortunate enough, to inherit her father's estate, but unfortunate enough to marry a man without a title. The manor house was slightly run down now and from the ten servants, she had once employed only three were left as she liked the company of people less and less. Nonetheless, she did like to prove herself a benefactress and at the suggestion of the parson, Mr Whitwater, a man of kind and understanding disposition, had founded a small school (4). And young and promising Aldwin Holmes, stuck with the guardianship of his orphaned nephews, had applied for the position and had been immediately hired. That was little more than two years ago. It had also been her, who had recommended Kitty as their maid of all trades, making both Sherlock and Mycroft believe, that nothing good could ever come from this noble lady – patroness or not.

While the children had to wait outside, their uncle was forced to lay open the accounts. She came out herself to count the crates and indeed had the audacity to send back her footman to count the remaining crates. Well, really! Little Sherlock was steaming.

But if he thought that had been the worst, he was to be surprised. When they arrived home, the door to the shed, of which he knew had been closed when they had left, now stood ajar and one of the stacks of crates was missing two of them.

Irritated Uncle Aldwin creased his brows, while the footman left, assured the payment had been delivered in full to his mistress.

"This is most vexing!" Mr Holmes steamed.

"I am sure I have closed the door..." Mycroft stammered.

"Yes, I know you did, my boy. And even if you had not, it would not excuse the person taking the apples without asking!"

"Look, there is a footprint." Sherlock pointed at a faint imprint on the dusty ground.

"Could be mine." the uncle suggested, placing another print next to the suspicious one. It did not fit, however.

"It is not yours." the little boy stated matter of factly. So much so, that a grin crept across his proud uncle's handsome features. "And it cannot be Kitty's either because her feet are much smaller and she wears slippers and not boots."

"And you would see that how?" a stunned Mycroft enquired.

"Look, it had a rough sole, no slippers have soles like that. It is smaller than Uncle Aldwin's shoe print, but not by much," he explained, tracing his fingers around the imprints.

"I dare say, our little detective here is right."

"And what are we going to do now?" said detective asked, needing some guidance.

"We bring the other load over to the station and then have a nice cup of tea."

Grumbling the children obliged and six crates of apples were disposed at the station, five miles off. It was almost dinner time when the returned. Tired, dirty and hungry. But neither Sherlock nor his brother could resist the temptation of looking into the shed once again where the heinous crime of apple stealing had been committed.

Gazing into the semi-darkness, Mycroft caught his breath as he realised another crate had been taken.

"We need to do something!" he cried out.

"Yes, decidedly! But what?"

"I don't know. Let us sleep over it and in then morning we'll see."

"But what if there are no apples left in the morning?" Was the perhaps justified reply.

Both boys were unusually quiet during dinner, but Aldwin tired himself, thought nothing of it. They went to bed without complaining and after being tucked in began to set their plan into motion.

Sherlock, more familiar with the household than his brother, had managed to set aside some coal ash from the kitchen range and while he had hidden it in the laundry room, his gaze had fallen onto a small bottle. He knew Kitty used it for her hair, but when he had asked his uncle about it, he had answered with a smirk, that it could come in handy if he ever swallowed a penny and needed to retrieve it quickly. Slipping it into his pocket, he had returned to the kitchen just in time to avoid Kitty noticing him as he stepped out of the laundry.

Now he showed his prize to his snickering brother.

"You are a genius, Sherlock! Even if we don't catch the thief, he will still get his punishment. And Kitty never uses the apples without washing them, so we should be safe."

Slowly, and carefully they sneaked downstairs, taking the front door, as Kitty was still sitting up in the kitchen.

"Do you hear that?" Sherlock whispered.

"Is that Uncle Aldwin with her?" Mycroft looked shocked.

"No, I could hear his snoring."

"But who is it then?"

"How would I know? We can walk around the house and peek through the window if you really want to know. It might be Peter."

"He likes his sister as much as we like her." Mycroft truthfully declared, at which his brother shrugged his shoulders.

It was not Peter, it was Jack, the farmhand, that was with their maid.

"We need to tell Uncle." the elder stated with a trembling voice, while he held his hand in front of his brother's eyes.

"Because they are kissing?"

"Is there anything that escapes you?"

"Yes, a lot," Sherlock answered contritely, turning his head away from the window. "Mrs Brown had her baby and again I did not see any stork around here. And I thought I should have because it must be a rather big bird and..."

He had no idea why his brother had burst laughing. Mycroft was almost rolling on the floor, tears streaming down his face as he gasped for air.

"I fail to see, what is so funny!" the young child exclaimed in exasperation.

"You'll know eventually."

Carefully they opened the creaky door to the shed and with a little brush from Sherlock's watercolours, they dripped a bit of the castor oil into the small depression at the top of the apple where the stem sat and watched it seep into the core.

"Are we not going to do all the apples?" the sneaky rascal asked when his brother put the stopper back into the bottle.

"No, I think this one crate should be enough. After all, we want to eat from them as well..." his older brother answered.

"But did you not say, Kitty, washes the apples?"

"Yes, but I did not think that the oil would actually seep through the stem and into the apple itself. We now need to be very careful, not to mix them up. I think we better tell Uncle as well."

"And Kitty?"

A naughty grin crossed both brothers faces as they decided against that option. After emptying the ash bin in the shed, to reveal more footprints with its aid, they left for bed.

They, however, had not needed to worry, as the next morning another two crates were gone.

"We have now lost five crates of apples," Aldwin Holmes told his nephews. He was not so much angry as sad at the betrayal of trust towards his fellow creatures.

At the revelation of his nephews, however, an almost evil smirk appeared on his face.

"Remind me, never to meddle with you two." he laughed, back to his old cheerful self. "I dare say, you have made for a very juicy punishment. - Literally."

He hurried the boys on to get into decent clothing as service would begin in half an hour. They had just sat down, Kitty in the pew of her family, when Peter came in, looking frightened.

"I am sorry, to just barge in, but I think we might have a case of cholera on our farm. I cannot stay, but I must ask everybody who gets their milk from us, to throw it out." he gasped.

A murmur went through the small village church, and just Aldwin Holmes was smiling slyly.

"And who has taken ill?" he asked.

"Jack Tull."

Kitty gasped, before excusing herself as she felt quite queasy, too.

"He had not coincidentally eaten any apples this morning?"

"I think he did..." Peter stammered, appearing confused. "I saw him cross the yard with an apple in his mouth. And I wondered where he had got it from since we have not yet harvested ours."

"I thought as much. There is no need for anybody to throw out their milk. And why is that, Sherlock?"

The boy beamed up to him: "Because he is a thief!"

xxx

The holidays came to a close, and in two days, Mycroft Holmes would return to school. Both boys and their uncle sat around a smouldering fire, each a stick in their hands which held a potato.

"You know what?" Sherlock Holmes asked, at which the other two shook their heads. "I think I would like to be a detective when I am all grown up," he announced.

A. N.: This story was inspired by my son, who already is a great Sherlock Holmes -Fan and the only reason he does not want to become a detective when grown up, is that he thinks in order to be one, he would need to live in London. Bless him!

Anyway, this year for carnival he insisted on going dressed up as his idol and I have put a lot of work into his costume. When he tried it on the other day, my mother in law asked, who would be Watson and I answered her, that the two only met in their twenties at which my husband remarked, that at seven Sherlock would in all likeliness not have been a detective…

At which I thought: Hm, what if he was?

This is the result and I hope you have enjoyed it.

It would be great if you could leave me a comment.

(1) As in the 1860ies, flushing toilets were rare and especially out of town, using the outhouse during the night would have been rather unpleasant. Chamberpots were in common use, they would be emptied out in the morning and then cleaned – that is, why Sherlock finds them in the laundry room, as that room usually had a water pump. In this case, the chamber pot would have been one with a lid, explaining, why the maid had not seen the frogs when putting away the pot.

(2) Servants often slept in the kitchen. As the house Aldwin Holmes and his nephews live in is quite tiny, this will apply to their maid. A sleeping bench is a bench which converts to a bed at night and otherwise is used as a bench during the day. Usually, it has a compartment underneath the seating, where the bedding and nightclothes are stored away.

(3) It might seem odd, that Mycroft is home for his holidays, while Sherlock still has his lessons, but holidays were not regulated as they are today, neither from their length nor from when they took place and so the time off could vary from school to school. As Aldwin Holmes obviously teaches in a village school, the holidays there would normally fall into the harvest and planting season, whereas boarding schools would have their main holiday during the summer months and a week or two over Christmas.

(4) In the 1860ies, education was deemed a privilege of the noble and wealthy. Some of these people though thought that the ability to read and write would also be beneficial for the not so fortunate classes and so some of them set up small schools, paying for them out of their own funds. The pay Aldwin Holmes would have received would have been barely enough to sustain himself – but it would have included the living. But as the Holmes family has a noble background and obviously some financial means, he can afford this meagre job for the sake of the children.


	2. The mysterious Mr Snuffles

**The mysterious Mr Snuffles**

The wind was howling in the chimney and the leaves danced through the garden in a cascade of orange and brown. Little Sherlock Holmes was tucked in, snuggled into the cosy sleeping bench that once had been Kitty's. The dour maid had left some weeks ago, too upset about what had been done to her poor Jack and no-one really knew, where they had gone.

"Uncle Aldwin, what do you think happened to Kitty and Jack?" he asked, his voice raspy from the cold he had caught the week before when both his uncle and he had been caught in the rain on their way back from the station.

"I presume they have gone to Gretna Green and have now settled somewhere, I heard Jack's family has a small croft somewhere in the Midlands," he answered absent-minded, reading through an essay from one of his older pupils.

"Who is this Gretna Green?"

"Not who, Sherlock, what. It is a village just across the border to Scotland. When people want to marry hurriedly that is where they can go to do so."

"Who would want to marry Kitty?!" the little rascal exclaimed, thinking about the stout whining girl he was quite happy to be rid of.

"Jack, obviously." his uncle replied with a knowing grin on his face.

"Peter told me, he is going to be an uncle soon – just like you. Can I become an uncle, too?" the boy's little face was eager.

He loved his uncle as dearly as if he was his father and when he was grown up, he wanted to be just like the unfathomable man sitting at the kitchen table, with the papers spread out in front of him and the steaming pot of tea, that during the cold months was ever present somewhere in the house, providing the much-loved beverage throughout the day.

His pipe in one hand and a pencil in the other Aldwin Holmes stopped in his task to look at his charge, his eyes sparkling with amusement and kindness. The family resemblance was uncanny and there was little doubt, that when grown up, Sherlock would be the spitting image of the young school teacher. Most people who encountered the two together for the first time had little doubt that they were father and son, close in looks and in temper.

"I dare say, one day, you might be, my boy. But you will have to wait, till your brother is grown up."

"What has Mycroft to do with it?"

"Everything." was the dry answer.

"And if Mycroft does not decide to be an uncle?" the child seemed sad at the thought. "How will I ever be one?"

Putting down the pencil and leaning back in his chair, Aldwin eyed the boy, seemingly trying to decide on something. Then, scratching the ash out of his pipe with his pipe tool (1) and stuffing fresh tobacco in, he took a deep breath, the unlit pipe and a match in either hand:

"Well, neither you nor your brother can decide whether either of you will be an uncle or not – but one day, you might want to be a father and no matter what Mycroft will think about it, as soon as your baby is born into this world, he will be an uncle and there will be nothing he can do about it. And if Mycroft decides to have children, the same applies to you."

Sherlock was confused. What could the man mean with when a baby is born? He had asked Kitty once and she had been adamant that little children were delivered by a stork. He thought back to Mrs Brown and her new arrival and how annoyed he had been to have missed that blasted bird once more. And suddenly the laughing Mycroft came to mind when he had remarked on it last time his brother was home from school.

"Uncle Aldwin, how are babies born?"

"Sherlock, you have been there, when the sheep had their lambs have you not?"

"Yes, and when Scarecrow had her kittens. They just came out of her." he glanced over to the curled up tabby cat, that had made herself comfortable on the crate they kept the coal supply for the kitchen in.

"The same way babies come out of their mother. Remember Mrs Brown's round stomach? That was the child growing inside of her."

"But how did it get there?"

Had he not realised it before, now the uncle knew there was no way out. His six-year-old nephew was bored and curious and this always being a recipe for mischief, this time he had managed to choose exactly the one subject Aldwin would have liked to postpone for as long as possible. Sighing he at last lit his pipe, pondered for a moment and then explained enough to quench the boy's interest.

"Does that mean I would have to kiss a girl?!" a scandalised Sherlock asked.

"The answer would be yes."

"Urgh!" the boy shuddered and the man knew that for now the subject was closed.

Sitting up, Sherlock put his elbows on the windowsill and stared out into the darkening late October afternoon. But as the window only overlooked their own garden, there was nothing to capture his interest.

"You know what, Sherlock, if you are that bored, you could peel some potatoes for our dinner tonight. How about fried potatoes? And some eggs?"

"Sounds good..." the boy trailed off. It was the one thing he missed since Kitty had gone – her food. She had been a very gifted cook. If not much besides.

"I do believe a new maid is in order, don't you?" his uncle asked, understanding the meaning well.

"But not another one like Kitty!"

"Kitty was good at what she did, though."

"Maybe, but I would like someone nicer. But she cannot possibly be pretty."

Aldwin was startled. "Why not?"

"I heard Mrs Smith, Mrs Gavin and Miss Hill talk to one another the other day and they said it is a shame that you are not married, they know such a nice girl looking for a place in service – but she is too pretty to work for an unmarried man like you." the child replied with earnestness.

"So, is that what they are saying?" a frown had appeared on his handsome features. "I tell you what, my child, if I find a decent, hardworking and kind girl who wants to work for us, I don't care whether she is a scarecrow or a beauty, I will hire her regardless."

He handed his ward the bowl with the washed potatoes and a small knife and the boy began peeling. A second bowl was placed on the table, half full with water and with a splash the first spud dipped into it, soon followed by many more.

xxx

With his fever cured, Sherlock resumed his lessons together with the other children his uncle taught. Sitting next to Janet Brickly, as his uncle insisted upon the students being seated according to their age (2) and her and Sherlock being the youngest, he glanced over to her, from the corner of his eyes. Pretty she was, he thought, with her long golden blond braids and her rosy cheeks and lips. And she was nice and well behaved, never did she join in, in any of the wilder games and he had never seen her clothes soiled, let alone torn.

He doubted, that a girl like Janet would let him do something as ghastly as kiss her. Not that he actually wanted to. But if he had to, to achieve his goal of one day being like his uncle, he would, grudgingly. Though perhaps rather a girl that was less boring than her, the future Casanova mused. Lunch break came and perhaps it was wise to show, he could be neat and well behaved, too, just in case.

"Do you want me to clean the blackboard again?" Sherlock thus asked his uncle. Aldwin looked up from his book, looking at his nephew with a smile.

"Yes, that would be nice, Sherlock. Then I can go and make us some sandwiches. - But, Sherlock, properly this time."

The boy gave a sheepish look, knowing that last time he had taken care of cleaning the blackboard, it had been done in such a haste, that it had to be cleaned again, by his disgruntled uncle.

He walked over to the small zinc bucket and dipped in the sponge when his eyes fell upon a piece of soap next to the wash bowl (3). This time, he would get it clean properly!

Rubbing the wet sponge against the piece of soap, the little imp began wiping. Over and over again, he wet the implement and over and over again, he rubbed soap onto the soft sponge and after about ten minutes, he was mightily impressed by how clean the board was. Not a bit of chalk was left on it. Dropping the sponge into the bucket with the now foaming water, he hastened home for his lunch.

"I cleaned the blackboard really well, this time, Uncle Aldwin, I think you will be quite impressed!" he gasped proudly.

"Good! And I have good news, too. From tomorrow on, we have a new maid."

The man held up a letter, handing it to his eager nephew. It did not bode well, that it was written by Mrs Nichols, their landlady, who had supplied them with Kitty as well.

Dear Mr Holmes, the letter said,

I am in the happy position to recommend yet another maid to you, despite your lack of controlling the first one and her now having run off. You must be aware, that it will reflect badly on you as well as me, should you not be able to properly advise this girl as one mistake might be put down to inexperience, but twice would be considered carelessness.

The girl I have in mind has been in service for some years and will know her place. Emma Stone is her name and I have arranged for her to come and start with you tomorrow.

Kind regards

E. Nichols

It bothered the little rascal greatly, that neither he nor his uncle had any say in the matter. They, of course, did need a maid, but somehow Sherlock had hoped, that his uncle with his impartial judgement and good reason would choose the one, that would most suit their household. Looking into the resigned face of his guardian, it was clear, that his uncle's thoughts were along the same line.

"So, I dare say, we will have another Kitty after all." he grinned, shrugging his shoulders and pushing the prepared sandwich across the table.

Blowing into his trumpet, Aldwin Holmes marked the end of the break and as the next lesson would be mathematics, he began writing down the assignments for his pupils. Or rather he tried. As much as forced the chalk against the board and as much as he wet it with his tongue, nothing would make the numbers appear on the black surface. Amused, some of the children watched, as their teacher gave up in exasperation, resorting to reading down the tasks. Washing his chalky white hands in the washbowl, the man's eyes fell upon the water bucket with the frothing surface. Counting two and two together he turned around to look at little Sherlock, who sat, engulfed in thought, quickly solving his additions. No, no sneaky grin there. It either had not been him, or he was unaware of what he had done.

"Sherlock, you have not coincidentally used the soap to clean the board?" the uncle hence asked.

"Yes, I have, I wanted to have it really clean, as you told me to." was the innocent answer.

Running his fingers through his unruly hair, the man wondered what was to be done, but found that the only thing that could be done was to wash away the soap with as much water as possible. An interesting idea crossed his mind.

"Matthew, your father has, if I remember it correctly a bucket pump (4) in his workshop?" - The boy's father was the local blacksmith.

"Yes, Mr Holmes, he has. Has bought it, when a heated horseshoe fell down and ignited the hey, they had fed the beast with (5) because it was quite a nervous animal."

"I presume that is why your father dropped it in the first place. Could you go and get it, please?"

"What, now?"

"Yes, now."

The ten-year-old boy could hardly believe his good fortune as he dashed out of the door to get the pump. It was no secret, that Matthew Rodgers was not very partial to mathematics. The other children had stopped in their work also, but instead of telling them off, their teacher grinned, telling all of them to push every bit of furniture as far back from the blackboard as was possible, while sending Sherlock for their new scrubber.

"Today, I will explain to you the physics of a water pump." Aldwin Holmes announced to his surprised class. "And to do so, I will demonstrate it with the bucket pump, Matt is picking up right now. All of you will be allowed to have a go and try it for themselves."

"And what's the scrubber for?" his out of breath nephew asked, having made it back first as they only lived across the street.

"To get the soap off the blackboard so I will be able to write on it again..." his uncle smirked at a blushing Sherlock, while the rest of the class began laughing.

Quickly the lesson turned into a trial of strength with the boys, seeing who could built up more pressure and aim further, the water splattering off the unadorned brick wall and forming puddles on the plain, stone tiled floor, where it was mopped off again by the one person who had before had the pleasure of working the pump. While most girls were equally enjoying this lesson as the boys did, only Janet looked slightly mortified by the chaos that had invaded the schoolroom.

The whole lesson, quite well explained actually, lasted not more than half an hour and so, laughing and in an exceptionally good mood, the class left for the day, more than an hour before they normally would have. They knew they were lucky to have such a teacher as Mr Holmes and some of the older girls had lost their heart to the tall and good-looking man.

Scrubbing the blackboard Aldwin Holmes, wise enough to have taken off his coat and rolling up his shirt sleeves, had eventually gotten sufficiently drenched, despite the long handled scrubber, but the soap had been washed off and he could make use of the board again.

"Now there is only one thing left to do..." Aldwin mused, looking wickedly at his nephew, who had waited for him in the doorway and with a quick movement, little Sherlock Holmes was on the receiving end of a prank, being likewise drenched by his uncle.

"Got you!" the man shouted, while the little boy screeched with laughter.

xxx

About a week later, Sherlock was just on his way back from the little post office that doubled as a shop, where he had gotten some tobacco for his uncle when he ran into Janet Brickly.

"Hello, Janet," he greeted, surprised she actually approached him.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," she answered, blushing slightly as if she were embarrassed. And then, out of the blue, she stepped towards him and gave him a peck on the mouth. The little tyke was so flabbergasted that the tobacco pouch landed on the ground and split open. Carefully pushing her aside he managed to stammer: "What was that for and was it necessary?"

"Oh, that was for the nice flower, you put on my desk the other day."

What flower? Sherlock's brain could not recall such an incident. And had she really just kissed him? Wiping his cheek with the back of his hand he still did not know what to say.

"But..." he tried.

"You don't need to say anything, it is all right. I like you, too." she beamed.

"But I did not give you any flowers," he insisted, and then it dawned on him.

On his way to school the previous day, he had seen a really interesting beetle sitting in one of the late climbing roses that grew around a trellis across the garden gate and he had taken out his pen knife to cut it off, so he could examine the pretty green creature more closely in school, where he knew his uncle kept a magnifying glass. But as it happened, Uncle Aldwin had called him to his desk and told him to distribute the reading books and he had just flung the rose onto his table, where it must have slid across to her side. Later he had forgotten about it, till now. Darn!

"Oh, but I know you did, I put it into my hymnal so I can keep it forever." she stepped forward and the boy hoped, that she would not kiss him again.

"It was an accident." he stammered, bending down to pick up the tobacco, staring at the mess before his feet and crying out: "Oh no!"

While he had uncomfortable shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the pouch had tilted and the fastening had become undone.

"What is it, dear?" the girl asked compassionately.

"I am not your dear!" Sherlock almost yelled. He had enough of girls already. - And then another, extremely disturbing thought crossed his mind. She had just kissed him, hadn't she? What if...?

Picking up the tobacco and trying to rescue as much of it, as he could, he turned around on his heel and ran back home.

"Dear me, what has gotten into you?" Emma asked as he slammed down the pouch on the kitchen table.

"Nothing!" he answered, hurrying out of the back door and grabbing the small axe began splitting some wood to kindle the fires.

"Sherlock?" his uncle had come after him. "What is the matter?"

"Janet is having my baby and I don't even like her." the boy wailed. "I know it is scandalous, and I have dishonoured her – and you."

Dumbfounded his guardian stared at him, before breaking out in a hearty laugh. With a smack, Sherlock rammed the axe into the wooden chump and stared at him angrily.

"Well, she tricked me into it!" he announced, which did not exactly help with the man's composure. By now tears were streaming down his face.

"Sherlock, am I to understand that..."

"Yes, she made love to me!" now the child almost cried. He was vexed and ashamed and at a loss as to what to do. Bursting out with the whole story – apart from the fallen down tobacco pouch – he leaned into his uncle for comfort.

"I think I might have explained certain things in a way, that might be easy to misunderstand." Aldwin finally said, petting the little one's head. "It is not kissing alone and not making love with fine words and silly presents, that make the babies. And aside from that you, as well as Janet, are far too young, to have children, yet."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

It was later in the evening, Sherlock had already been tucked into bed when he heard his uncle next door, cough and then hurry through the house in what seemed almost a frenzy. Dazed the boy got up and worriedly opened the door to glance out into the hallway. It was not long that he needed to wait for the man's return.

"Are you all right, Uncle Aldwin?" he asked with concern, staring wide-eyed at the man in his grey woollen dressing gown.

"Yes, yes, I am fine, but what kind of tobacco did you get me? It is absolutely horrible!" the uncle queried, a jar of strawberry jam in one and a spoon in his other hand.

"Why are you eating jam?"

"To get that disgusting taste out of my mouth. And I am still waiting for an answer. Did Mr Perry try to persuade you again to that special blend of his? And why did you bring so much of it anyway?"

The boy looked at him wide-eyed, as he took another mouth full of the jam, seemingly enjoying the sweet taste.

"I have bought six ounces, as you have told me to." Sherlock Holmes stared sheepishly at his uncle's feet. "I am sorry, Uncle Aldwin, but the pouch fell down and I saw that some of the tobacco had spilt and I picked it up, I accidentally might have..." he trailed off.

"Might have what, accidentally?"

"I did not really pay attention, because of Janet and – and I might have picked up some of the horse dung as well that was lying about..."

"I thought I knew the aroma from somewhere..." Aldwin replied dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously. "Well, I will finish the jam and hope it covers this horrible taste and then I'll go to bed."

"Are you not angry with me?" his little nephew asked, uncertain what to do now.

"No. I would have been confused as well, and would have mistaken dried horse manure for tobacco (6) if I was kissed by a pretty girl out of the blue," he answered with a hint of irony, but laughing now, his eyes twinkling.

xxx

Next morning, Sherlock got up and dressed and went to get the milk, as almost every morning. By the time he had returned, Emma had stoked the fire in the stove and the water kettle was whistling.

"Ah, good morning, Sherlock." she greeted him, with a friendly smile on her plain but good-humoured face.

"Good morning, Emma."

He was still amazed by the agility of her, insisting on wearing a hooped skirt (7). Kitty had always refrained from it, for practical reasons and seeing the woman whirl around the house with her silly contraption made him actually agree with their former maid, even though he liked this one a great deal better. Because even though she had already fallen victim to one of his mishaps she had not held it against him for long and with his apology to her, all had been forgiven and forgotten.

"Sherlock, could you prepare some tinder for me later? I will have to take care of the laundry on Monday and as tomorrow is Sunday, I think today would be appropriate to stock up on it."

"Of course I can." and he was quite proud to know that that was the truth. In his nimble ways he had practised the use of the smallest axe in the house for several months, being guided by his uncle at first, and now was quite adept at chopping pieces of wood into thin sticks that were just perfect to kindle their fires.

So as soon as Sherlock had finished his breakfast he went outside, he had little else to do anyway. It took him a while to fill up the crate, as it had been almost empty. Storing it under the overhanging roof of the garden shed, he went back indoors, not quite knowing what to do next, boredom already creeping up on him. To his surprise though, he spotted an old and cracked saucer with some watery milk sitting next to the kitchen door.

"I am all done!" he announced, quite hungry again and it was lucky that Emma was just about finished with her preparations for tomorrows tea cake, so he could tuck into the remnants of dough in the shabby old porcelain bowl.

"Thank you," she answered, handing him the bowl and wooden spoon, recognising the expectant look on the child's face.

"Is Scarecrow not allowed into the kitchen anymore?" the boy asked, looking around as he licked his fingers, having managed to get the sticky substance pretty much over all of his fingers and face. It was delicious though.

"What gives you that idea?" the maid had continued in her daily tasks and had begun sweeping the kitchen and now looked bewildered.

"Because of the mouse in the teapot the other day?" A few days ago, his tabby had brought him a mouse, still living and as his uncle had told him to not scare Emma in her very first week working for them, he had – much like the incident with the frogs – slipped it quickly into the next pot he could find. In this instance the empty and cleaned teapot. - The culprit should have known it to be a recipe for disaster, remembering the last time he had hidden something in a pot. Poor Emma in her fright had almost dropped their teapot, but pure luck had it, that it only had chipped a bit at the base and was otherwise unbroken.

"I know that was not on purpose, Sherlock, never mind the mouse, of course, your cat can still come into the house."

"Why have you put her milk outside then?" was the confused reply.

"Oh, that is not for Scarecrow, that is for a little surprise visitor I had the other night." he looked at her curiously and laughing she sat down on her sleeping bench, put an arm around the child and explained: "I woke up two nights ago to a weird sound of grunting and coughing and sneezing – or so it sounded and I have to admit, I was scared quite a bit."

"Who was it?"

"It was Mr Snuffles." she answered, with a smile, "he seemed to look for something to fill his little grumbling stomach with and I felt sorry for him and gave him a bowl of watered-down milk and a bit of the stewed beef we had for dinner. He liked it so much, that he now visits me every night."

"But what will uncle say, if he finds out?"

"Oh, he knows. He had heard Mr Snuffles as well."

"And he did not do anything?"

"No, but we thought that perhaps you would like to go outside and track down my Mr Snuffles, and find out all about him?" she raised her eyebrows, knowing she had caught his attention. "Your uncle told me that one day you would like to be a detective. - One can never start to practice too soon."

"Yes, I would like that, but what do you want me to do, when I have found him?"

"I'll leave that to you. I am sure you will do the right thing." giving the little boy a motherly hug, Emma got up from the bench again to resume her work, while little Sherlock Holmes put his cardigan back on, donned his scarf and cap and hurried outside.

Carefully inspecting the cracked saucer and looking around him, he became aware of a weird looking black piece of scat a little bit away from it, where the stone plastered yard met the lawn. That surely could not have anything to do with Mr Snuffles, could it?

But it was the only clue he had so far. Taking two dry leaves, he pushed the poo onto one with the aid of the other and brought it over to his little chump. Flinging aside the axe, Sherlock bent down to take a closer look. He was certain, that it was neither from a rabbit nor a cat and it also appeared too small to have come from a fox or dog. But what other animals were there? Was there perhaps an animal that rummaged around at night, making funny noises? He was not sure.

Returning to the house, the detective in training again went to where the little makeshift bowl stood. Thinking about it, by now, Sherlock was almost certain, that Mr Snuffles must be an animal. A small animal and one that was nocturnal. Walking in a straight line to where he had found the scat, he carried on walking till he reached the small brook at the far end of their garden. There had not even been the slightest hint of a clue there. So, Mr Snuffles did not seem to walk in straight lines. Not really surprising, neither did he.

Walking back in a wide zig-zag pattern had not given him any more success though. Sherlock Holmes, the detective needed to think of something else. So, where could Mr Snuffles be hiding? That was a plan at last!

But where would a small animal be hiding? In a hole in the ground, perhaps, or in a hollowed tree trunk? Neither Sherlock could find anywhere in the garden. The compost heap in the far corner of their property? He walked around it carefully, and indeed, Mr Snuffles must have been here, for he found some more of the unusual looking poo. But the creature itself was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there, where the compost had been dug up by his uncle the other day, there were tiny footprints, like little claws and they wandered off in the direction of the house. There Sherlock had to remind himself again, that the creature did not walk in straight lines.

He had been spending almost the whole morning in the garden, searching it, when he heard his uncle call him in for lunch.

"I heard you are looking for Mr Snuffles?" the man asked with a smile on his face.

"Yes, but I had no luck so far."

"But I am sure, you will find him, Sherlock."

Emma's meals were almost as good as Kitty's, but since she was much more pleasant to have around, the meals still seemed so much nicer. And today, she had made a cottage pie (8), one of the Holmes' favourites.

"You know what?" Emma asked as she cleared the table. "Why don't you put a small amount of pie aside, so you can give it to the young man you are searching for?"

'All right', Sherlock thought to himself, as he once more set out to search for the mysterious Mr Snuffles, 'what small creature is nocturnal, eats meat and drinks watered down milk, makes funny coughing noises and has little claws…- and is harmless, since Emma does not fear it?' He did not know. Mycroft's words came to mind, that reading was a good way to acquire knowledge. But this insight did not help him in any way, now.

After another futile hour of searching for the mysterious creature, Sherlock gave up for the day. This game was beginning to lose its appeal for the time being. He could always continue his search tomorrow, or rather on Monday. As tomorrow there would first be the church to attend and after that Sunday school and after that, he could read a bit, perhaps, what else was there to do on a Sunday anyway.

In his boredom, he took the little four-wheeled handcart his uncle used to transport things around in and set out to the steep hill on the other side of the Gifford-Farm. He rounded the house and stepped onto the street, dodging another encounter with Janet, who looked as if she was on her way to Mrs Mallory, for the girls knitting classes, with her neat little work basket and her eager face. From school he knew, that knitting was her favourite subject and that reading and writing were secondary in her opinion.

Sherlock stopped shortly at the smithy, where Matt's father once again was fitting a horse with a new shoe. It was a huge bulky animal, seeming the bigger since the child was so small. But even Mr Rodgers, a tall and burly man appeared small against the flank of the large black and white Shire Horse with its massive hooves. It was a particularly calm animal though and Sherlock knew it to belong to Peter's and Kitty's father, Mr Summers, the owner of Kerkhill- Farm, where he went to fetch his milk every morning. Waving at his friend, who calmly held the bridle, Sherlock Holmes carried on.

Having underestimated the weight of the cart when pulled uphill, it took the little prankster a little more than twenty minutes to climb to the summit of the not overly high but steep mount. Halfway, all of a sudden the cart went a lot easier and when turning around, the little tyke looked into the cheekily grinning face of Alfie Taylor, his best friend, a year older than himself, but with an equally curious and impish disposition.

"What are you up to, Sherlock?" he asked, a little out of breath as he had been running most of the way to catch up with his friend.

"I have long wanted to try out, how fast this thing would get if I drove it down this hill." was the reply, which was met with much enthusiasm. "I mean I have seen Mr Gifford's cart once roll downhill, but as no one steered it, it landed in a shrub eventually and stopped about halfway. But imagine, going all the way down..." his eyes shone with anticipation.

Alfie's grin widened, reaching from almost ear to ear, revealing the lack of both of his upper front incisors.

When they reached the top, both boys, placed the cart on the one spot it would not start moving immediately, but when they had climbed in, the cart would not just move, they would need to make it start somehow.

Climbing out again, Sherlock cut off two fairly sturdy looking branches from a hazel bush, handed one to his partner in crime and scrambled back into his uncle's handcart, taking the place at the front, as it was his idea after all.

"Now, we use the sticks as paddles, like in a boat," he told the bewildered looking Alfie and using their combined strength, the vehicle began to move, slowly at first, but quickly gaining momentum.

It was about halfway when Sherlock realised that he had forgotten one major point… - How to stop this thing, once at the bottom. There was a sharp right turn that led back into the village, while a driveway to the left led to the farm.

He heard Alfie saying something, but the wind was howling in his ears and his eyes were fixed on the approaching fence. Should he go left or right? Would he be able to steer such a curve at such a speed? Could they jump out, just in case?

Quickly deciding, that the turn that led onto Mr Gifford's farmyard, was less formidable, he steered it to the left, the cart tilted dangerously, the left-hand set of wheels in the air, while the other was almost scraping across the gravelly path.

They took the turn in a stride, but getting the cart to go straight again, was much more problematic now. While the thing had lost some of its speed due to the tilt, the boys had not foreseen, that a slower cart, was harder to steer, as it had lost already lots of its momentum.

Neither Sherlock nor Alfie were certain if it was particularly lucky or particularly unlucky that at this particular point there was a steep bank underneath which was the farm's pig wallow.

The cart toppled over the edge, and while Alfie ended up wedged underneath the cart, to which he had clung for dear life, Sherlock, having been at the front, had actually fallen out and landed face down in the stinky mud, right among a bewildered looking group of piglets.

In their relief, both boys started laughing, but only when Sherlock wanted to move, did he realised, that he had twisted his ankle and would not be able to walk, let alone climb the steep bank. Alfie, on the other hand, was stuck inside the cart which, when standing on its wheels, was easy enough to move, but was too heavy for the two boys to turn around. Perhaps it was not so funny after all.

As it was, the task to get some help would fall on him, since Alfie, though uninjured, was irrevocably trapped. After ten minutes of trying to free his friend, the two little rascals had given up and wincing in pain, Sherlock had scrambled to his feet, and pulled himself up the bank with some effort. No-one was around, that was unlucky.

"Ouch!" he gasped, as his injured foot made contact with the ground, but he bit his lip and began limping towards the village. Deep in thought how to explain the situation to his uncle, he almost bumped into Janet once again, who was on her way to her parent's little villa a little outside of the village, halfway between the Gifford-Farm and the last cottage of the village itself.

The girl looked at him aghast, wrinkled her nose and with an exclamation of disgust scurried away from him. At least one problem, that had solved itself, he thought, a wry smirk on his mud-encrusted face. What was not solved though, was the problem of how to admit to Uncle Aldwin, that despite the fact, that the man had told him not to, he still had put his plan, into motion quite literally and raced their handcart downhill and had thus trapped his friend underneath it.

His trail of thought was cut short when he almost bumped into the man. His uncle, as it was beginning to get dark, had obviously been looking for him and he did not look pleased. With a raised eyebrow and a stern, questioning expression he stood there, arms folded across his chest and obviously waited for an explanation.

The contrite culprit explained the situation and Aldwin insisted that Sherlock had to accompany him, and help him. Every step hurt, and by the time they had reached the steep slope, his ankle had swollen considerably.

Taking off his coat, Aldwin Holmes jumped down and into the mud himself, and with a quick movement had freed culprit number two.

Alfie, who had a mighty fear of his teacher, bowed crisply, muttered his thanks and then legged it.

"He could have actually helped us!" a disgruntled Aldwin growled, lifting the heavy cart and pushing it up the bank, with the result that he now looked as dirty as his nephew, safe for his face.

"Emma will not be pleased," he added, when he had made it up the slope, looking down on himself and at the little imp, a suspicious twitch pulling at the corners of his mouth as he burst out laughing.

"I hope it was worth all the pain, Sherlock..." he teased, picking up the child and placing it in the cart, before taking the drawbar, so they could walk home "Well, I think you are sufficiently punished, by your having to walk back here with me, now you should get off your foot."

xxx

When little Sherlock returned from school on Monday, Emma was busy with their laundry as she had said. Stirring the large cauldron (9), she looked a bit like a witch stirring her potion – but a very nice one, with red apple cheeks and large brown eyes.

Deciding that he was more of a hindrance than a help, he strayed outside again, deciding that now was a good time to resume his search for Mr Snuffles. There were a few more traces now, but still, the young detective did not succeed in any way to solve the mystery.

Sherlock began wandering around the garden once again, peeping into every nook and cranny that met his eyes, much slower today though, due to his still bothering injury. Again the compost heap was inspected, and the heaps of leaves throughout the garden, but once again without avail.

Annoyed he was about to climb his favourite tree to sit up in the branches, thinking about his little problem, when he spotted a small hole in the door of the garden shed. The lower part of one of the planks that made up said door, was somehow shorter than the others and a small animal could slip through there. Sherlock had never really observed it before. But now he opened the latch and peeked inside. Nothing. At least not at first glance. But then his observant eyes spotted it. In one of the corners, there was a heap of dried grass, rags and string, that had somehow piled up there and snuggled up almost hidden behind a watering can and a spade, was a tiny hedgehog.

"I see you have found him," an impressed voice sounded from behind. In his eagerness, Sherlock had not even realised, that his uncle had been following him. Now he looked at his guardian with a broad smile on his handsome little face, his grey eyes shining.

"Yes, I have found him. But, shhhhhh, he is sleeping." the young detective put his index to his mouth and carefully stepped outside. "Now, I know who Emma's Mr Snuffles is." he smiled happily.

"Then go and tell her."

A.N.:

(1) A pipe tool is a, implement that helps to clean and stuff the pipe, consisting mainly of three parts, a scraper, a pick and a tamper. The scraper serves for scraping out the ashes out of the pipe bowl, the pick, to clean the draught hole, where some ash might accumulate as well. The tamper is for compressing the fresh tobacco in the pipe bowl, so the tobacco can smoulder slowly.

(2) In general, village schools consisted of only one class, with children of various age. In the 1860ies, education was not yet compulsory in England, but some local nobles did set up schools. In this case, the school's patroness is Mrs Nichols, who is also the owner of the property Aldwin Holmes has rented. Anyway, to manage more easily in teaching many different grades in one go, usually, those children making up one grade, sat together, with the younger ones in front and the older ones at the back. Also, as with the holidays, the start of the term could vary from school to school and there was, of course, no set curriculum as to what to learn when and if at all.

(3) In the 1860 running water was a rare and water was usually got from wells and pumps. To be able to wash one's hands, wash bowls would be used. They could either come with a pitcher that held the water, which in turn was poured into the bowl, when needed, or they could be simple water-filled basins, that were emptied out frequently.

(4) A bucket pump is a basically a bucket with a pumping mechanism built into it, that is operated by hand. While the bucked obviously serves as a reservoir, the pump follows the same simple system of any hand pump. With a hose and nozzle, it can build quite a bit of pressure and has a decent reach of several meters, depending on the person operating the mechanism. A bucket pump is quite effective to quench smaller fires and is actually still part of the equipment of the fire brigade to this day.

(5) Horseshoes are usually fitted when the iron is still hot, but not smouldering anymore. But at any rate, sometimes the iron needed altering and with a nervous horse in close vicinity, it could happen, that a red-hot iron fell to the floor. Normally there would not be any straw or hay laying around in a smithy, for obvious reasons, but in this case, what was supposed to calm the animal must have in the end scared it even more.

(6) Funnily enough, dried horse manure and some cuts of pipe tobacco don't look dissimilar. So, considering the circumstances, it was a legit mistake.

(7) A hooped skirt or crinoline was all the rage in the 1860ies, meaning basically a wide cut skirt draped over a cage of metal hoops that got wider towards the ground, creating a bell shape. They were quite impractical, especially for a maid who had to work around the house, stoke the fires and so forth. Many accidents happen, so let's see if perhaps Sherlock can convince Emma to get rid of that thing…

(8) Cottage pie is a traditional English dish made from minced meat and vegetables, all put into a casserole dish, topped with mashed potatoes and baked in the oven.

(9) Particularly white laundry was literally boiled to get the stains out. This could be achieved either by heating water on the stove in big pots, which then would be poured into either zinc or wooden wash tubs – or, alternatively, there were wash tubs that could be fired underneath, which was a bit more practical. In this case, we are talking of the latter implement. Especially in the country, they could double as a large cooking pot for making preserves, as this, for lack of artificial refrigeration, was the only way to keep things over a long period of time. The common process of getting the laundry clean, was to stir it with a paddle and if stains remained, they were worked out with a washboard, meaning a wooden frame with a metal insert, that looks slightly like an oversized grater, but is not serrated, of course, but has a surface much like water ripples on a beach.


	3. The disappearance of Baby Jesus

**The disappearance of Baby Jesus**

Waking up in the dim light of the early morning, the sleepy lad stretched himself, yawning and wondered, if perhaps it was worth turning around for a couple of minutes more. Not that the little tyke was really still tired, but his room was freezing, the plump hot water bottle had long ceased to emanate heat and had ended up at the foot end of his bed, where he was barely able to touch it with his bed-sock clad feet (1).

The tiny window was covered in intricate frost patterns (2) and he was sure, he could see his breath fogging up in the chilly air of his chamber. Only Emma had it warm, sleeping in the kitchen, and when Mycroft finally returned home from school for his Christmas holidays, the two brothers could, at last, keep each other warm as they had always done (3).

It was this thought, that made little Sherlock Holmes sit up in his bed, when it dawned on him, that his brother would arrive today! How could he forget?

Sliding out of bed, bracing himself against the frosty air, he reached for his shabby looking dressing gown, he had inherited from his older brother and put it on quickly over his flannel nightshirt. Picking up his clothes from the chair underneath the window, he trudged downstairs to wash and get dressed in front of the stove, where it was nice and warm.

He found the kitchen deserted, but heard the maid rummage around the laundry, where she heated the kettle, so they would have enough hot water, later on, to take a bath.

"You know, the boys will need it, once you return from the station with them." she had said to his uncle the night before, who in turn had only nodded his head, too occupied with reading a book.

Emma was nice and considerate and within a few weeks, they had settled into a quiet routine that did not at all resemble the timid atmosphere when Kitty had been around. Pouring himself a mug of tea, which she had already prepared, he began stripping down and washed. It admittedly was but a quick wash, as he looked forward to the bath in the big pewter tub later on, so surely it would be all right not to be too bothered with scrubbing his neck and behind his ears – parts of his body that seemed to accumulate a surprising amount of grime.

Absent-mindedly, as the little imp was already busy thinking about what adventures he and Mycroft would get up to once he arrived, Sherlock plunked the soap into the enamel water jug (4) that stood on the side of the stove where it waited to be picked up by his uncle, as the man did not like to wash and shave with cold water. When he realised how it swayed, standing close to the edge, he pushed it a bit further towards the middle and then began dressing. Putting on his woollen stockings first, his thick winter drawers followed, as well as a knitted vest, a flannel shirt, thick corduroy trousers and a knitted waistcoat (5). At last, he felt too warm being this close to the fire and retreated towards the draughty window, sitting down on the bench there, sipping on his now almost tepid tea.

Only one week till Christmas, he mused, as he drank, one arm propped up on the table, the other holding the earthen mug. There would be no school till after New Year and if that was not already wonderful enough, his sweet tooth looked forward to the mince pies and the plum pudding and the gingerbread (6) and the dates and raisins and… - his mouth began watering at the thought of all the goodies. Aldwin had already promised, that tonight, as a treat for Mycroft's return they would make some baked apples. The anticipation for that well-loved treat made him hungry enough to even look forward to his obligatory portion of porridge that his uncle insisted upon him eating every morning during the winter.

He was woken from his most pleasant thoughts by a sharp hiss and glancing up, he saw that the water inside the jug was now boiling violently, foamy liquid flowing over its rim and evaporating from the hot iron surface with angry hisses. As the water heated up more and more, the jug with its smooth bottom began to move on its own, and hobbled ever so near to the back of the range, dancing as if it had its feet burned – if it had any. Being first bemused at the spectacle unfolding, after a minute or two of complete befuddlement, the child started laughing. It looked so incredibly funny as the jug danced back and forth on the hot iron surface sometimes turning around as if in agitation and then again wobbling sideways in a fairly straight line. But then, with a clank, the jug had danced too close to the edge, and slid off the range, getting wedged between wall and stove, slowly tilting, till it spilt the hot, soapy liquid all over the floor.

"Oh, dear!" Sherlock muttered, his eyes wide as the water spread across the stone-tiled surface.

It was, as always, most unlucky, that both adults came into the kitchen shortly after and long before Sherlock had found a solution to the problem at hand. Uncle Aldwin in his dressing gown and nightshirt arrived from towards the hallway, obviously wanting to pick up his warm water to wash and Emma from the laundry, looking heated from her efforts of lighting the kettle, which was always a tricky business. Seeing her master and knowing him by now, she hurried to get him a cup for his tea, and so, not looking where she was treading and unaware of the disaster that had occurred only moments before, her eyes went wide in surprise, when her foot slipped and she skid across the floor, ending up on her backside and in the process knocking the young and perplexed man off his feet, too.

Both maid and uncle lay in a most undignified heap on the kitchen floor, legs entangled and either flustered and flushed with embarrassment (7).

Aldwin Holmes was the first to recover and was almost desperately keeping his eyes on his giggling nephew, who had failed miserably at keeping his features under control. His guardian glared at him, though from his expression it was clear, that he was well aware of the funny side, as well. At last, he got up, using the open door to steady himself, before helping the mortified girl onto her feet with some difficulty, considering he had no real stance himself. Slithering across the room in his house slippers, with a sigh Aldwin sat down on the next chair within reach.

"Was that you?" he enquired in exasperation, his cheeks still burning, but a sparkle in his grey eyes.

"It was an accident..." his nephew mumbled.

"An accident?!" Aldwin raised an eyebrow at the boy before him, who from the corners of his eyes could see the maid flee back into the laundry, sobbing.

"Yes. I'll clean the floor in a moment – I would have done so already, but then you came in… - But first I want to apologise to Emma." was the quiet answer. Had it been Kitty, he would have been hard-pressed to apologise voluntarily.

Knocking on the door he heard a startled call to enter and there Emma sat on a tiny footstool, looking still deeply ashamed and flustered.

"I am really fed up, you know?" she remarked, wiping the tears from her comely face and then, once more repeated angrily, pointing at her dress. "I am so fed up with this!"

The small boy stared at her, his eyes wide with fear, hoping she would not leave them, too. What would his uncle say? And what Mrs Nichols? But there was little doubt, her dress had been all but ruined.

"I am so sorry, Emma. It just happened. I don't even know how… Please, don't leave."

"Who speaks of leaving, love?" she sobbed. "I meant those blasted crinolines!"

Sherlock stared at her in surprise. "But don't you like wearing them?"

"They are the most impractical thing, ever, I tell you, Sherlock! Who comes up with such follies?" she cried out.

"Does that mean, you are not wearing them voluntarily?" sounded the bewildered voice from his guardian, who had appeared in the doorway, barefoot, so he would not slip as easily.

The young woman shook her head resolutely.

"Mrs Nichols..." she began, rolling her eyes. "When she contacted me, she told me, that I would have to do better than run around in my black work dress or else everyone will think us to be completely uncivilised."

"And what would be so uncivilised about a maid wearing practical clothing, suitable for work?" a now smiling Aldwin asked, looking from his nephew to his housemaid.

Emma just shrugged her shoulders, grinning lopsidedly.

xxx

It was a tricky business to mop up the soapy water, but with determination and a little help from the forgiving maid, the little scatter brain managed. Eventually, it was shortly before lunchtime, Aldwin and Sherlock Holmes set off towards the station. The little rascal was lucky enough to be allowed to sit on the large sledge his uncle had borrowed from Mr Summers, while uphill Aldwin pulled him and downhill joined him with great cheer. There was one particularly steep slope shortly before they would arrive at the station and with much laughter they sped down the snow-clad lane, missing the curve that lay at the foot of the hill and so ended up, head first, in a heap of snow.

"I should think, by now we would know the treacherous bend at any given foot of a mount." Aldwin mused chuckling, getting up and dusting off his clothing. He too wore more practical clothes than his usual elegant garb, looking quite rustic with his round felt hat, the red scarf, the thick black pea jacket and his riding boots. Why his uncle of all people had riding boots, was beyond his little nephew, as he had never seen the man atop a horse, but by the wear of them, he must have had them for some time, as their toecaps looked quite beaten and the sole was well worn. Had it not been for some spiked leather straps he had attached to his shoes, Sherlock was sure, his uncle would have slipped several times over on the frosty ground.

They were a little early, as they had planned, and so, expectantly they sat on the sledge by the platform and awaited the train, that would bring back Mycroft from school. With a loud whistle, the engine announced its prompt arrival and minutes later came to a halt at the tiny station, that offered little more than a waiting room and a stand within, where one could purchase a cup of tea and some biscuits.

Sherlock liked the big imposing machines, with their black kettle and the bright red wheels and bars (8). It was only once he had been on a train and he could not really remember it, as he had been too small, being only just three. It had been on the day when his uncle had picked up his orphaned nephews and had brought them to their new home, but that was all he knew still. With some surprise, the young boy realised he could not even remember his parents anymore as they had, over the years, faded into a distant memory. But now there was nothing but anticipation at seeing Mycroft again and the knowledge of being loved unconditionally by his remaining family.

The older boy flung open the door of the third class carriage and before Sherlock knew what hit him, he swayed under the weight of Mycroft's carpet bag that had been pressed into his hands, while their uncle took hold of the boy's trunk and Mycroft himself descended the two steep steps to land safely on the platform clutching his satchel.

As Sherlock found his balance again and had glared for a second or two at his brother, who grinned back at him cheerfully, patting the little one's head, the heavy bag was taken from him, by their guardian.

"Oh, it is so good to be back!" Mycroft exclaimed, taking hold of his trunk's other handle to help the man to lift it onto the sledge.

"It's good to have you back here." Aldwin smiled, giving his older nephew a hearty hug at long last. "You were missed dearly, Mycroft."

"Yes, and I missed you the most!" little Sherlock Holmes piped up, throwing his arms around the tall thirteen-year-old as soon as their warden had let go of him. "Oh, and we've got a new maid. She is really nice. The other day Uncle Aldwin and I fixed some shelves over your bed, so you can put all your books there. And Peter has agreed, to teach me, how to ride a horse. - Well, all right, it is just a pony, but after all, a pony is only a small horse, so it's pretty much the same. And two weeks ago, Uncle Aldwin told me, to cut off a branch of one of the apple trees. It's now standing in a jug on the windowsill in the kitchen. – And you know what? It is about to start blooming. I think soon, we might have apples on there, too..." here Mycroft and Aldwin Holmes started chuckling as the eager little boy chattered on happily, wanting to tell everything at once.

"And Alfie and I have decided, that we would build a sledge of our on, all by ourselves, and perhaps we can get his dog to draw it. You know Bruno is quite big and..."

"Sherlock, perhaps you could refrain from bursting out with everything at once? - We need to get home, or else it will be pitch dark before we reach the Langfield. And you know, Emma is waiting." he was at last interrupted by his uncle, who smiled kindly.

"Oh, yes! You know, Mycroft, she has prepared a bath for us. Isn't that nice? And do you know, what we'll have afterwards? We'll ha..."

"Sherlock!" now both the older Holmes' laughed aloud. Blushing, the little chatterbox stopped and then joined them. Happy at being reunited the three laughed, till Aldwin, a little out of breath and holding his sides, reminded them once more, that they needed to get moving.

When they reached home, it had indeed already gotten dark and a cold wind was howling through the dale they had to walk along for about a mile and a half, making all three of them shiver. Here and there, illuminated windows shone through the impending darkness, indicating the hamlets and farms they passed on their way. At long last, the glow of their own windows greeted them invitingly and they had barely crossed the garden gate, when the door was swung open and Emma, now wearing a plain black dress sans hoop, beamed at the three of them. Though tired, Sherlock ran up to her and flung his arms around her neck, making her smile even more broadly.

"I have started to get worried," she confessed, letting go of the little one. "I can tell there is more snow to come and you took such a long time."

"We are home now, Emma." Aldwin Holmes replied, appearing slightly embarrassed by her worries, but a small smile was playing on his thin lips nonetheless, showing he still appreciated her concern for him and the boys. "And this now, is my older nephew, Mycroft." he introduced while knocking the snow off his boots against the small stone step leading into the house.

Mycroft Holmes smiled tentatively, but their maid had none of it, taking his politely outstretched hand, she pulled him closer, placed her other hand on his shoulder and said sincerely: "I am very glad to meet you, at last, Master Holmes."

As she had promised, the bath was ready and waiting for them and without much ceremony, Aldwin had the boys take off their wet and partly frozen clothes in the comfortably warm laundry, and while Mycroft was tall enough to climb into the tub himself, his little brother was lifted in by the tall man (9).

"Don't forget to wash your hair!" their uncle reminded them, before disappearing into the kitchen, in all likeliness to help himself to a cup of tea.

"Ah, this is wonderful!" the older exclaimed.

"Yes, but you know, it would be even better if we could race a few walnut boats." the smaller and more innovative boy exclaimed, looking around him.

"In a bathtub?"

"Yes, why not? But there are no walnuts anywhere around..." he glanced around in the hopes of finding an alternative.

And to Mycroft's great surprise, the little inventive rascal did. There on a shelf only slightly out of reach lay four boxes of matches.

"You'll never get at them," Mycroft told him, not bothering to move, being quite happy to just sit and relax. But his little brother was undeterred in his efforts and climbing quickly out of the tub, he ascended a chair, emptied out two of the small cardboard boxes and pushing the footstool Emma used to reach better into the wash kettle towards the tub, he climbed back in having managed to drip all over the laundry, his wet tracks clearly visible on the rough floor.

"You are impossible, Sherlock!" his older brother grinned as they raced their matchbox boats by blowing against them and trying to reach the opposite side before the other did. It was unlucky though, that in their brotherly competitiveness both boats sank too quickly to determine a winner.

So it was, that the two boys ended up making bets on who could hold their breath the longest and dipped under water. After Sherlock had won for the third time in a row, he suspected his older brother to have him win on purpose, only to find, after having re-surfaced right after going under, that Mycroft indeed was barely able to hold his breath for long and then his eyes fell onto a large bruise on the elders rib cage.

"What happened to you?" Sherlock asked, worry in his bright grey eyes.

For a moment, Mycroft looked perplexed and then started laughing. "You mean the bruise? Well, that is quite a story, I tell you! - And I will, I promise, you will just have to be patient, little one. But for the moment, we better clean ourselves properly, before Uncle returns."

With that, his brother had been right as soon as he had said those words, the man re-appeared and had them climb out of the tub, dry and dress in their bedclothes, while he himself stripped down to also wash quickly in the still warm water.

xxx

The baked apple was as delicious as Sherlock had anticipated it and not a single crumb was left over on either of the four plates. Feeling comfortably warm, a familiar state of drowsiness had eventually set in and the many questions, answers and telling of stories were postponed to the following day.

During the night, it had started to snow again, just as Emma had predicted and the snowflakes looked much like soft downy feathers and reminded Sherlock of a fairy tale his uncle had once told them. Breakfast brought all the conversation that had been put off the night before and hence took about three times as long as it usually did.

"You still have not told me, why you have that big bruise on your chest." Sherlock inquired, with his mouth full of porridge, which earned him a rebuke from his guardian.

His brother looked slightly abashed, fell silent for a moment and with a tint of colour to his cheeks began his tale, knowing his uncle would not let him get off now that he had gotten wind of it: "Well, I made a wager with James – and yes, I know, I am not supposed to do so - that I could get hold of the schools ram – you know the school keeps sheep to keep the lawns in shape? Well, this ram is a nasty piece of work, but I did manage to get quite close to it, actually. I know from Peter, that you should stand completely still as soon as you get into the animals field of vision, so it cannot perceive you as a person and I did, only moving towards it, when it had turned its back on me. It took me an incredibly long amount of time."

He poured himself some more tea before continuing: "Well, James eventually got impatient, because it took me such a long time, to even come close to the animal and he too stepped into the paddock – well, you know how he is. Walking straight at the ram, the animal saw him and charged at him, butting him against the enclosure with force. I got to him just in time to stop that blasted animal from running against him again, with the result that I was likewise thrown against the wall. But the beast was distracted long enough for the two of us to make an escape. So no harm was done and all we sport are a few bruises, that is all."

Mycroft tried to look as nonchalant as he possibly could, but he knew he was in trouble, and deeply so.

"You are aware, that you could have been killed (10)?" Uncle Aldwin looked very, very displeased. "You and – I take it James refers to James Moriarty?"

Mycroft nodded reluctantly.

"For a boy of seventeen, leaving school next summer, he acts extremely stupid and irresponsible!" The man stated angrily, having once been said boys teacher, but at another school. "But he has always been reckless. - And why did you let yourself get trapped by him? What was the wager over?"

The older of the two brothers swallowed hard before admitting: "A small box of snuff (11)..."

Aldwin's fist descended onto the table top with such force that the spoons danced noisily in their empty bowls of porridge and both Sherlock and Mycroft jumped to their feet. Emma looked flustered, never having witnesses as yet, how livid Aldwin could look when upset. And an imposing sight it was!

"So, for a small box of snuff, you are willing to risk your life?" their uncle roared and Sherlock could not remember, when last he had seen his uncle this angry. His brother stood there, head hanging low in apparent shame, staring at his feet. "I had thought you to be more clever than this, really!"

"I am sorry, Uncle Aldwin. I really am." the culprit mumbled, looking up at last.

"And so you should be." was the slightly calmer reply. After his outburst, Aldwin had gotten up, walking back and forth in front of the stove. "Oh, and Sherlock, just to clarify, if I ever see you attempting something like this, I promise you, you will not be able to sit for a week. Is that understood?"

The younger one nodded, biting his lip. If his uncle threatened with corporal punishment, it was serious indeed. And there was no doubt at all, that Uncle Aldwin would deliver if he had to.

"I go and clean the path, shall I?" a still crestfallen Mycroft muttered and Aldwin, never angry for long accepted the peace offering with a small smile, sitting back down reaching for his pipe and the paper.

"Sherlock, give Emma a hand, will you?" his uncle spoke from behind his paper.

Jumping back to his feet again, the little boy, put their bowls together and brought them over to the sink.

"Thank you." she smiled, patting his head before beginning to wash up.

Sherlock had just taken out his wooden spinning top and had just finished wrapping the thread around it (12) when Mycroft returned from his task only to be told by his uncle, that while he was at it, he could also clear the short and narrow path in front of the school.

"Oh, and Sherlock? Perhaps you could change the water from the bucket, I forgot to bring it with me and I presume Reverend Whitwater will need the blackboard for Sunday school tomorrow. - And, while you are over there, foster the embers (13) as well, please"

Sighing Sherlock put on his boots and jacket and ran after his brother in quest of emptying the water from the bucket that was used to clean the small school's blackboard. Mycroft was almost done clearing the footpath, when Sherlock arrived, having struggled with a particularly tricky knot in his laces.

With a few swift steps the young rascal was inside the unadorned school building, hurried over to the small iron stove that kept the single school room warm and stoked the fire, adding a few more pieces of coal, that with the almost closed air flap only smouldered and then made sure, as had been drilled into him, that the oven was neatly closed again. Quickly grabbing the pewter bucket on his way out, he saw that Mycroft had already finished with his task and was on his way back and so, without much thinking, Sherlock emptied the half-full vessel as soon as he was outside, stepped through the shallow puddle and followed his brother around the house.

xxx

It was early afternoon when Alfie Taylor dropped by to ask if Sherlock wanted to go tobogganing and though Sherlock, for lack of a sledge of his own, needed to resort to making use of an old bit of waxed canvas (14), it did not bother him very much. Rolling up the piece of rough fabric, the three boys, as Aldwin Holmes had made sure, Mycroft went with them, left for Kerk Hill. It did not escape the younger of the two brothers, that the elder had managed to slip a book into the pocket of his jacket. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock skipped on alongside his best friend, little guessing that at home, the preparations for Christmas were in full swing as Emma was making mince pies, macaroons and gingerbread, having prepared the dough in secrecy almost a week prior so it could mature, while his uncle slipped out of the house after them to visit Reverend Whitwater to prepare for Sunday school.

When they reached Kerk Hill many children already sped down the steep slope. The footpath leading uphill had turned into a slippery and fairly treacherous track, where Sherlock's plain canvas proved to be quite an advantage, as all he needed to do was stuff it underneath his jacket to have both hands free to get to the top safely. Alfie, with his polished board, had less of an advantage. Having missed attaching a rope for pulling it, it was a cumbersome business pushing it and carrying it was just as irksome. Though once at the top, having been greased with a generous amount of lard, it sped downhill just like a proper sledge. There was one more decided disadvantage in comparison to the plain canvas though, which, after their reckless adventure with his uncles cart only little more than a month ago, made Sherlock prefer his makeshift toboggan to Alfie's, even though it was not as fast and a lot less comfortable to ride at least it could be steered properly and easily.

It came as it had to. Alfie, unable to control his makeshift sledge, lost his balance, rolled off the stroppy board halfway down and ended up in a heap of snow, banging his head hard on a stone near the surface and losing his hat in the process, that was consequently caught in a blackthorn bush and unravelled when it was retrieved by his best friend, who had come to his aid. Consequentially Alfie, holding his injured head assumed an exasperated expression while Sherlock looked rather sheepish with his friends dissolving hat in his hands.

Neither of them was sure afterwards, who started to laugh first, but Sherlock would wager it was Martin Riley, the eleven-year-old son of the apothecary. But soon others followed and at last almost all of the children laughed at the hapless Alfie with the bruise on his forehead and his still snow covered hair and clothes, his bemused face as he glanced dumbfounded from between his dissolving hat in his hands and the well-greased board that had slid further downhill, as if to spite him.

What the little Sherlock Holmes did know, however, was who started the ensuing snow fight. - It was himself. Coming to his friend's aid, he challenged everyone who was currently chuckling – and that was pretty much everybody apart from Janet Brickly, Alfie and himself.

"And what will you do to us little Sherlock Holmes?" George Dean asked in a spiteful manner, towering threateningly over the small and slender boy. Sherlock knew his uncle had only recently given the boy detention for having done something to Rosalie Brown and was little surprised to be on the receiving end of his wrath at being caught on his own.

"You'll see!" Sherlock cried out angrily, before quickly bending down and just as nimbly throwing a handful of snow into the glaring youths face. George Dean was already thirteen.

The ensuing raucous brought Mycroft to the scene, who had sat on a fence just out of sight to be undisturbed while reading. Watching some of the older boys rounding up on the smaller ones, he made haste to reach the cajoling group to get between the bullies and the smaller children – particularly his brother, who, fearless and daring as he was, was bound to be in the midst of it, no matter the consequence.

"What is going on?" he demanded to know in a harsh voice, though none of the brawlers paid much attention to him.

Being always one to cause trouble, George, Martin and their rather few but intimidating friends were now on one side and Sherlock, Alfie and the rest, the numerous Brown children among them, on the other. The rough snow fight spread across the whole of the slope, as one after another of the children at one point rolled, slipped or slithered downhill till, in the end, all of them were reunited on the lane towards Kerkhill Farm. Most children by now had enough and quickly left the scene to go home, but those who stayed were still hard at it.

It was a fierce brawl and to Sherlock's astonishment, Janet, as the only girl still present, was in the middle of it. It was a moment till he realised she fought out of sheer desperation, being cut off from her path home by three of the tallest lads of the ruffians' gang. Tugging at Mycroft's sleeve Sherlock caught his attention and the two brothers walked towards the three rakes in an attempt to help the scared little girl. So, while Mycroft distracted them, Sherlock got hold of Janet's hand and dragged her past the group and out of the danger zone. Wide-eyed the girl just looked at him in surprise, eyes brimming with tears and lips quivering, before turning on her heel and running down the lane towards her parents home.

But so it happened, that now Mycroft was in pretty much the same position that Janet had been in, only that this time the other boys did not restrain themselves. Rounding on the schoolmasters older nephew, George got hold of him from behind, while the others closed in on him, glaring. Sherlock could see his brother wince in pain, when the first blow hit him in his already bruised rib cage. With his sharp wit and the unwillingness to fit in, Mycroft had always been fairly unpopular with the group. He, with his bookish ways, was usually referred to as a prime example of learned behaviour by their parents and the patroness Mrs. Nichols and especially with Martin Riley this did not sit well. Marty's father, being only an apothecary, wanted for his son to become a doctor, and thus intended to send him to a public school, but his marks were bad and time and time again, Mr. Riley insisted in a voice filled with disappointment, that for the time being, it would be nothing but a waste of money. Now George and Martin paid back all the humiliation they had suffered, no matter how unfair it was to blame Mycroft for their own shortcomings.

Sherlock, inventive as he was, saw Alfie's board lying forgotten on the side. Picking it up, he hurried a few yards uphill and then flung the board towards the fighting group. It landed, as he had hoped it would, on the ground and slid with some vehemence towards the wrongdoers and in consequence, also as he had hoped slid forcefully against Martin's ankle. Yelping the boy glanced about him in surprise and thus being inattentive was duly kicked in the shins by Mycroft, who used the leverage his captors afforded him to his advantage. And so it went on. The two brothers fought as best as they could considering they were outnumbered and most of their opponents were older.

When the two boys finally reached home together with their guardian, Sherlock was bruised, his hand was swollen and he was wet through, having gotten a load of snow down the collar of his shirt while Mycroft's nose was bleeding and he was limping so badly that their uncle had to support him. To say Uncle Aldwin was displeased would have been an understatement, he was furious. But he was not angry with his wards. On his way back from Reverend Whitwater, Aldwin Holmes had decided to walk round Kerkhill Lane to check on the children and so happened to come upon the fight, breaking it up in the process.

"It is quite lucky we've got Sunday school tomorrow," he growled as he knocked the snow off his shoes upon entering their cottage. "I as well as Reverend Whitwater will have a word about what has just happened. And by Jove, Martin and George will feel the consequences of their actions!"

xxx

It was later in the evening that his conscience bothered the small imp so much, that he could not sleep. Tucked into bed early so he would not get ill after the afternoon's adventures, he lay there snuggled up to his old comforter blanket his mother had made for him when he was but a baby and the hot water bottle. From the sitting room downstairs he could hear the soft sounds of his uncle and brother playing some music, practising for the carolling on boxing day. Sherlock was the only one in the family not being able to play any instrument – another thing that was bothering him, feeling left out.

Then again, Mycroft had been trained on the flute from such an early age, that Sherlock, being seven years younger, could not remember a time, when his brother could not play the instrument, and well at that. Again, if his parents were musical, too, he could not recall, but his uncle certainly was, playing the piano, sometimes the organ at church and the violin all fairly well.

Sighing, Sherlock Holmes slipped out of bed and sneaked downstairs. It would not do, he had to confess to his uncle that he had started the fight in the first place. He would be just as bad as Martin and George if he did not own up to it and that was the last thing he wanted. No, he would confess and repent.

Waiting till the song was finished, he knocked carefully and upon being called in entered, head hanging and contritely.

"What is wrong with you then?" Uncle Aldwin asked, looking bemused at the ashamed little boy before him.

Putting down his violin, he beckoned him to come closer and sitting down he took his nephew's hands in his glancing up into his sparkling grey eyes.

"Uncle Aldwin, I have to make a confession… - I have started the snow fight, not Marty or George."

"Ah, and now you feel bad about it?" the young man inquired.

The child nodded reluctantly.

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because they all laughed at Alfie, even though he had hurt himself and his hat has had it and he sure will be in trouble for it. I told them to stop and most of them did, just George came over and asked what I would do if they did not stop and I told him I'd show them and he stepped towards me and then I took a handful of snow and threw it at his face and it all began."

For a moment his uncle sat completely still, while Mycroft cleaned his flute, looking affectionately at his little brother. After a minute of contemplation, Aldwin pulled the little rascal into a tight embrace and ruffling his hair laughed: "Oh Sherlock, what you did was very brave and very decent. You stood up for your friend and so you should have. And I am proud of you, my boy. A snow fight can be great fun, but one has to follow certain rules and while you did, George and Martin and their lot did not and that is my point – not the actual fight."

Pulling his younger nephew onto his lap and beckoning the older one to sit beside him the young uncle began telling them a fairy tale as a treat (15).

xxx

Attending church was a tedious business for little Sherlock Holmes. To sit still and just listen for a whole hour with nothing to occupy one's mind was no pleasant business. But eventually service was over and while the servants hurried back home the rest of the congregation scattered around in groups chatting merrily about this and that. Their uncle, nephews by his side, stood together with Mr Summers and his wife, as well as Peter and Mr Perry from the post office, talking about politics. Repressing a yawn, Sherlock looked around himself, while Mycroft seemed to find the conversation rather interesting. There, not eight feet from him, stood Martin Riley in his Sunday best, looking very respectable save for the shiner he sported. His father demonstratively stood between him and his best friend George, who was sporting a similar embellishment and the little imp wondered, how they had gotten their black eyes as it was certainly not during their fight yesterday afternoon.

Half an hour and several repressed yawns later the children were called by the Reverend to follow him and the whole group trudged down the back lane and over to the small schoolhouse. George and Martin, particularly demure today, obviously humbled by some punishment from their fathers, were the first to arrive at the door. Or they would have, had not the following ensued:

Walking almost ceremoniously the two boys suddenly yelped like girls, rowed desperately with their arms before landing on their backsides. Trying to get back up, proved a tricky business. The surface was as smooth as a polished wooden floor – or like a soapy stone tiled kitchen floor, Aldwin Holmes, who had followed the group, thought, suppressing a smirk. Sherlock gaped at the scene unfold before him, first in puzzlement then in realisation and turning around to hide his broad grin, his eyes met his uncles. With raised eyebrows, the man glanced at the amused little tyke and the twitch around the corners of his mouth showed he had counted two and two together already.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" Mr Whitwater cried, being of a decidedly less practical disposition than the young school teacher, standing helplessly by as the two boys still struggled to get off the ice. "What is to be done?"

"I would suggest a jute bag or rug be put on top of the ice," Aldwin replied calmly. "Sherlock?"

The man did not need to make any further instructions. Dashing off, the initial culprit went to fetch the required item, while Mycroft was made to lend a hand to help the hapless and once again humiliated boys off the frozen puddle. - Not without some satisfaction at their misfortune, it is to be said.

When the old rug had been supplied and lay spread across the frozen puddle, the whole giggling group of children walked over it safely and sat demurely down at their usual spots, just as if it were any other school day, just with less joy. Sunday school was a serious business, the Reverend had told them over and over again and many children agreed, that their regular lessons were much more fun – even though they included mathematics and grammar.

On entering the school, Aldwin Holmes held back his younger ward, whispering into his ear: "As much as I enjoyed the display, as it served both of them right, I suggest you start thinking before you act, Sherlock. It could have been an old lady or the Reverend who could have seriously injured themselves."

"Sorry." was the, admittedly not overly contrite answer he received.

Had Sherlock looked up at this moment, he would have known his uncle was up to something. The similarity between uncle and nephew once more uncannily apparent. But so the sly smile escaped him and as a result what followed was rather a surprise.

"The next few days, we will practise for a nativity play that we will perform on Christmas Eve." Reverend Whitwater announced pompously into the silence that had ensued after all of them had settled down.

The children gasped. Such an undertaking had never been attempted before, at least not in the village of Langfield (16). When the chatter had ceased, it was their school teacher who carried on.

"Reverend Whitwater and I have sat down together yesterday and have made a plan on who might be best suited for which part. As there are so many children, there are of course more possibilities to each role, so now, we would like to make a reading and all of you can participate in choosing who will get the part in the end."

The reading went on and on and at long last it was decided that Matt Rodgers would be acting the part of Joseph, Rosalie Brown would be Mary, Marty Riley, George Dean and Mycroft took the parts of the three wise men, Sherlock was to be the innkeeper and Janet – much to his embarrassment and his uncles delight – his wife, while the others were divided equally to be guests at the inn, shepherds and the choir of angels – the latter being consequentially those who could sing the best. The practise was then postponed to the following day so each of them could learn their parts and off they went, giddy with excitement.

So, early the next morning, the children set off towards school as if it were any other school day only that their work promised to be so much more fun. Old clothes had hastily been altered by mothers, grandmothers and older sisters to suffice as a costume and Janet had brought a rag doll she had made herself, so they would have a baby Jesus to lay in the manger – a disused one, the Reverend himself had supplied.

They worked hard and were eager and even the three wise man managed to have the appearance of wisdom despite their black eyes, that Sherlock now knew stemmed from a fight among themselves a little later on, when on their way home, though what it had been about, he still could not figure out. As it was, he also could not figure out, why Janet once more was smiling sweetly at him and in a manner that made him most cautious. Since he had come across her being all covered in mud, they had only said to one another what was absolutely necessary, but now this most comfortable arrangement had once more been dissolved and the girl was happy to stay by his side acting his wife. Great!

xxx

"Uncle Aldwin," Sherlock mused, as they sat around their kitchen table in the evening, waiting for Emma to serve dinner. "Why did the wise men not bring more practical things for the baby? I mean gold is, of course, handy to have, so one could buy something to eat and stuff, but what would they do with incense and myrrh?"

"Because they think Jesus to be a king – which he is, but of a different kind then they have expected. It did not occur to them, that Jesus might be born as the child of a carpenter and his young wife, with him being the son of God."

"But they were wise men and magicians, reading the stars. How could they not know?" the curious six-year-old lateral thinker insisted.

Sighing, Aldwin lay his book aside and stared into space as if the answer would come to him in the same way it had seemingly come to the three wise men. At long last, he smiled and answered: "Even the wisest of men, Sherlock, and the most knowledgeable can err. They expected a king – the king of kings in all his glory – but it was worldly glory they expected not heavenly one and so they brought the most precious earthly gifts they could find, to bring to a child that had little use for them."

His elbows propped up on the table and his little pointy chin resting in his hands, Sherlock Holmes thought about what his uncle had just said and before long something else came to mind.

"Does that mean, you can be wrong, too?"

Laughing his uncle replied: "Yes, of course. It happens more often than you think, little one."

"Is there any way one can refrain from being wrong?" was the next innocent question.

"I am afraid not. Only a woman can eventually manage to keep from being wrong – and only after she has gotten married. - As a man, I am afraid, the only chance of at least not always being wrong is to stay unmarried." Aldwin replied in mock earnest.

With knitted brows Sherlock stared at his uncle, unsure whether he was joking or not. Only when the man's face cracked and he broke out in his hearty guttural laugh did he know the man had not been serious. - Or at least not completely.

This night in bed, Sherlock snuggled up to his brother, but the thought of what was right and what wrong never left his mind and sleep just would not come. Who said what was wrong in the first place? And had it always been wrong? Or did at one point what was right turn into something that was wrong? With mathematics, it was easy to determine the right answer. Mathematics was logical and provable. So, to be able to prove or disprove things would be a reasonable factor to determine if something was right or not, was it not? Mycroft, who was sleeping soundly, hugging his little brother had spoken of algorithms the other day – of logical sequences and Sherlock had found it quite fascinating. Could an algorithm – or rather logic be applied to everyday occurrences as well? He sure would try and find out.

At last sleep did come, which in Sherlock Holmes' case did not mean his mind was not busy anymore. Sherlock was a restless sleeper at the best of times, but when his mind was occupied he was like a little spinning top that could not even be kept still by Mycroft's embrace. As a result the exasperated teenager at one point during the night migrated back to his own cold bed, letting the restless little imp rotate around his own axis as much as he pleased, sometimes lying on his back and the next moment having his backside point towards the ceiling as he lay there as he had always done as a baby, legs tucked underneath his body and bottom up. The only difference now was, that he did not suck at the corner of his blanket any longer as had been his habit. In the moonlight Mycroft cast one more glance at his sibling and with a smile and a shake of his head turned around to go back to sleep.

The scandal happened three days later. The children had re-located their rehearsals into church the day before and with only two days to go before the performance all were pretty excited already. It was Mycroft who first realised, that the little rag doll, swaddled neatly in a plain brown blanket was missing. He was sure Rosalie had left the doll inside the manger, but now it was empty. The church was searched and so was the schoolhouse, but no baby Jesus turned up anywhere.

"I suggest we continue with our rehearsal and afterwards try and find a solution," Aldwin, at last, suggested seeing it was already nearing noon.

Reverend Whitwater, impractical as always only nodded, his good-humoured face showing a hint of disappointment at the loss. But as the children were all in it with their heart, the increasingly good performance of the actors soon reconciled him and by lunchtime, the smile was back on his face and the missing prop forgotten.

Well, forgotten by Reverend Whitwater at any rate. Sherlock, sipping on a cup of tea and gnawing on his biscuit, both provided by Emma and his uncle for all the little actors, had not forgotten about it and neither had Janet – after all, it was her doll. She did not fuss about it, however, but sitting down opposite Alfie, who played one of the shepherds, and her 'husband', she began wondering.

"Really, I mean who would take Jesus?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "Do you think we might be able to find out?"

"Perhaps," Alfie answered, looking at the girl in awe, which did not escape his best friend who grinned to himself.

"If anyone can find out, I am sure it'll be us, don't you?" Janet continued, now looking straight at Sherlock.

"Perhaps." was his evasive answer, though he had already decided that he would pursue the mystery even before girl had approached them.

"So, what do you suggest we do?" she now asked with a curiosity Sherlock had never before encountered with her.

"We'll wait till the rehearsal is done for the day and then we start searching for traces." the young detective suggested. "Mycroft and Rosalie insist they left the baby in the manger, so there it should be, but it isn't. One thing is for certain – a doll cannot move on its own, so somebody must have taken it and if so, there must be a clue somewhere. We only have to find it."

And so, as soon as the group of actors had dissolved, Janet, Alfie and Sherlock sneaked back into church to have a good look around. It was thanks to Aldwin Holmes, who had seen them from the corner of his eye, that Mr Brown, who served as the sexton, did not lock them in.

"What do we do first?" Alfie wondered, feeling uneasy in this holy place without the rest of the congregation being present.

"Look at the manger, of course." was his friend's reply, who was already bending over the rough wooden thing filled with hay and straw topped with a rough cloth.

Even though Mycroft and Rosalie had searched the whole of the manger and had not found anything, the young sleuth attempted to do the same. First examining the cloth he folded it neatly and handed it over to Janet, who stood by in silence, while Alfie still stepped from one foot onto the other in obvious discomfort.

Next Sherlock took out all the hay and straw spreading it over the church floor in front of the altar and thus creating a bit of a chaos. But still no doll – no baby Jesus. But just when he though his efforts had been in vain, he spotted a small bow tied with a light pink satin ribbon, which must have slipped out of a girls hair. Trying to think of a girl he had seen with ribbons like this and unable to reach an answer, he, at last, asked Janet.

Picking it up from his outstretched palm, she looked at it closely and then shook her head.

"There are many who wear this kind of ribbon – I have the same colour ribbon at home. Mr Perry had them on offer a couple of weeks back and many of us have bought them, as they are so pretty."

That, Sherlock thought, was arguably, and he had the uneasy feeling his discovery rather widened the range of their possible suspects instead of narrowing them down. - Till it occurred to him, that at least for the time being, he could rule out the boys. They, of course, would not be found dead with a pink ribbon in their hair.

Gathering the straw together again and returning it to where it belonged Sherlock again glanced around himself. Could someone have put the doll inside the font, perhaps? It had not been searched and was covered by a wooden lid atop which lay an embroidered cloth and stood a chandelier. Thrusting the chandelier into his best friends shaking hands he lifted the cover only to discover that the font was actually filled with water. Reaching into it and down to the bottom, again he found no trace of their missing infant Jesus.

The last place they searched was the vestry that served as the inn in their nativity play. There were many chests and wardrobes for the ministers robes and a few boxes with various odds and ends Sherlock found rather strange to find in a church – like a pair of shears and a set of cutlery, but one never knew why they were there and so he tidied everything away as he had found it, with the pink bow still being the only clue to the heinous kidnapping.

When they stepped out of the church, closely watched by the amused reverend, it was beginning to get dark and soft flecks of snow began to fall again. As Alfie offered to escort Janet home, Sherlock turned around only to run into his uncle.

"I see you are on a new case," he smiled.

His nephew nodded. He had gotten quite a taste for solving mysteries.

"And, have you made any progress?"

"Not really, Uncle Aldwin." was the meek reply. "All we have found is this."

He held up the bow.

"You know what, Mr Sherlock Holmes, this is more than all the others have found."

"But could it not just as well be, that it was lost during the search?" this new thought had only just crossed his mind.

"Of course it could." Aldwin agreed with a proud smile on his face. "You know what? We go over to the school house and fetch my magnifying glass and then you take a good look at the ribbon once we are home. It cannot be much different than with nature – one is always surprised at how different something looks with a bit of magnification and how many more details one can make out."

It was said and done and as soon as dinner had been cleared away, the whole family sat around the table in an attempt to figure out what to do with the ribbon.

Mycroft insisted that the bow could not have come from Rosalie, as she, with her reddish hair, used blue ones, instead of pink. Janet was ruled out by Sherlock. It did not make much sense for her to supply the doll and then steal it before the performance. If she had wanted it, she could have just said so and have taken it home with her, to be brought back in the morning for the next practice.

The magnifying glass in one hand and the ribbon in the other, Sherlock began examining it closer. There was a wispy blond hair trapped in the knot of the bow. It was rather short for a girls hair and curled softly. Most girls at school wore braids and only Emily Hanson one of the older girls, had hair this length that she wore tied back, as her hair had been cut off when she had suffered from scarlet fever the previous year. It also was curling naturally, but hers was a dark brown so that she was also ruled out as were all the other girls with black, brown or red hair. - If this was indeed left by the thief, Sherlock reminded himself.

He then carried on to examine the actual bow more closely. The loop that had held the hair was but tiny, the little detective could not even get his pinky through it and borrowing a knitting needle from Emma he was sure, that only a tiny strand of hair had been tied up with this ribbon, not an actual braid. Wrecking his brains for who the mysterious girl could be he did not pay much attention to what was going on around him. After all, she also needed to have an opportunity to take the doll in an unobserved moment.

"Sherlock, could you please refrain from punching any more holes into the surface of our kitchen table?" he, at last, heard his uncles voice. The man managed to sound amused and fairly annoyed at the same time.

Waking up from his daze Sherlock realised he had been poking the knitting needle he still held in his hand into the polished wood, which had led to a curious pattern on the surface, almost like a star chart. With a start, he remembered something else. - Alfie's hat and the fact that he had not yet gotten a Christmas present for his friend. With only two days to go, it was high time.

"Emma, can you show me how to knit, please?"

This request was followed by an astonished silence. Even though all the men in the Holmes household knew how to sew on buttons and darn the holes in their stockings, none of them had ever attempted to do some actual needlework. With a smile at her little darling, Emma put aside her spinning wheel and took out a ball of bright red wool and another of equally vivid green and handed it to the boy alongside a set of five knitting needles. The boy looked slightly intimidated.

But with a lot of patience Sherlock managed to get his first row of knitting done and the more rows he finished, the quicker it went, till by the end of the evening he was, with his nimble hands and the willingness to learn quite proficient and the hat was finished to his satisfaction and pride only a few hours later, sporting wider stripes of red and narrower ones of green. At last the maid showed him how to make a bobble and this together with a little bell, which had originally been intended for a Mayday sash, was attached to the cheerful looking new woolly hat for Alfie Taylor.

When he met his friend and Janet the next morning, Sherlock Holmes told them, what he had found out so far.

"Then I know who is the kidnapper!" Janet exclaimed to his surprise.

"You do?" Alfie asked baffled, looking as if he could not make any sense of what had been said at all.

"Yes. Little Mary Brown. Rosalie's sister."

"But she is only four!"

"Yes, but Mr Brown is the sexton, he often is in the church tidying up, looking after the flowers and so on. - I know, because my father is one of the vestrymen and he said he is really pleased with Mr Brown, for he is such a reliable man despite him having so much work to do with his business and all."

"But it is widely known, that Mrs Brown does most of the sewing, not her husband," Alfie interjected. Mr Brown was the local tailor, who, with his surplus of children had been chosen to fill the position as sexton for the purpose of being able to better provide for them.

Janet rolled her eyes, obviously knowing what was being said.

"Then I suggest we go there and ask her." Sherlock at last suggested.

"But rehearsal starts in ten minutes."

"Yes, I know, so I suggest we hurry up. The Browns only live only on the other side of the church common it is not as if we have to walk for miles." was the impatient reply.

They found Mrs. Brown occupied with the newest arrival – a baby of four months old named Robin, while Rosalie, Peter, Carol, Anna and Jack were about to leave the house in the direction the three little detectives just had come from.

Mary Brown sat by the fire and played with the family cat.

"Mary, have you taken the doll out of the manger in church?" Alfie asked her without so much as a greeting.

Had her little face before been smiling and open, it now shadowed over and she got up stamping her foot determinedly.

"I don't like you!" she cried out.

Alfie looked sheepish from Sherlock to Janet. It was Sherlock, however, who quietly carried on:

"I am sorry, Mary. It is just that we have lost our baby Jesus and we have set out to find him, you know. Last night I found this in the manger and we believe it is yours, is it?"

The little girl examined the bow and then nodded.

"Yes, it is mine. I have lost it."

"And the doll?"

She seemed confused for a moment before, with a little help from Janet she realised that they meant the doll that was supposed to be Jesus.

"Oh, yes, I liked the doll and I took it, to have a closer look at it. I wish I had a doll like that!"

"And what did you do then?"

"Father wanted to leave and I put it back into the manger, where I have found it. Though I have to admit, the blanket was not so neat anymore as it had been."

"Do you think she is lying?" Alfie whispered in Sherlock's ear. But to his surprise, his friend shook his head vigorously.

"Mary, was there somebody else in the church?"

Biting her plump little lip, the little girl pondered for a moment before answering: "Yes, father had spoken to a man. He came over and looked at the arrangement and then went outside with us. - I think it was your father." she pointed at Janet, who gaped at her in astonishment.

But young Sherlock Holmes thought it made perfect sense and he was sure he had solved the mystery, even though he did not yet say so to his friends. He preferred being able to prove it first.

And so, when they were called home for lunch, he followed Janet and watching her enter the house he waited for a minute or two before knocking. He was lucky it was Mr Brickly who opened the door himself, as the maid was busy serving their meal.

"Good day Mr Brickly, I was just wondering, if you by chance have taken the doll out of the manger and took it home with you?"

First, the man looked perplexed, then he laughed.

"And why would that be of any interest to you, young man?"

"Because someone kidnapped baby Jesus and we have since been looking for the doll but could not find it."

"Ah, right." George Brickley smiled and bending down he whispered. "I will make sure that by this afternoon baby Jesus is returned to the manger. We needed her – as it normally is a girl – to fit her a new dress so, when I saw my daughters doll lying there, I took it home with me, not thinking it would cause a stir. Will you promise to keep quiet, young master Holmes?"

"I promise." was the solemn reply.

xxx

The play was a success and when Aldwin had finally managed to get his wound up nephews into bed he sat with Emma for quite a bit, relishing in the comfort she had brought to his home and family. With her in the house, he did not feel the need to retire to the sitting room quite as often as he had done when Kitty lived with them – or to his bedroom, that also served as his study.

"Is everything prepared?" he asked the industriously spinning woman.

"Yes, sir. I only want to wait for them to actually sleep before I start decking the room and setting up the table."

"Yes, I would not be surprised if young Sherlock finds a reason or two to sneak down again to wait for Father Christmas." he laughed.

"No, me neither."

And indeed, the very moment those words had been spoken the little imp peeked through the door.

"Can I have something to drink please?" he pleaded. A glass of water was handed to him with a smirk.

A.N.: Sorry, I know this kind of turns into Wikipedia… But children like to ask questions and I thought I can just as well put some background info on here as well.

(1) So first, hot water bottles back then were most commonly made of metal, and looked literally like a flat bottle (either oval or round in shape) with the opening at the top. They were not very practical and more often than not could easily spill, despite their screw cap. One also could easily burn oneself with them, so they were usually covered by something or only used to get the bed warm in the first place and be taken out, once one went to bed. In this case, I would imagine, Emma has knitted a cover for the thing…

Bed socks, were another means of keeping warm in bed in an unheated bedroom, as were bed jackets and caps, though not mentioned here.

(2) With single glazing, this would be a regular occurrence during the winter. It actually looks magical.

(3) It was not uncommon for siblings to share a bed. In this case Sherlock and Mycroft each have their own bed, and Mycroft would, with thirteen, presumably soon get too old to want to share a bed with his little brother, but considering, that there is no fire in their chamber, it has single glazed windows and there is no insulation, one can easily understand, why Sherlock is looking forward to being able to snuggle up with his brother for warmth.

(4) Meant is the jug that goes with a wash bowl. It is standing to the side of the stove, so the water can get nice and warm, but it is not actually on the stove. (At least not at first...)

(5) This is obviously the practical clothing of a country boy. Under normal circumstances, it can be doubted, that Sherlock would have grown up so free and unrestricted, but his uncle is wise enough not to put him into any finery, different than, one can assume, his parents would have done. So at this point, Sherlock looks a far cry from the son of a country squire, that he actually is. And yes, one is allowed to wonder, why the boys and their uncle, who is obviously brother to the boy's deceased father, are living in such modest circumstances. It will eventually be explained, but not in this series. This, as said, will stay the cheerful, (almost) carefree re-telling of a childhood in the 1860ies, to be read to my son.

(6) Mince pies are a type of sweet pie, mainly served during the Christmas season, filled with a mixture of dried fruits and spices. There is no actual mincemeat in there, even though the filling is called such.

Plum pudding or Christmas pudding is a very traditional part of an English Christmas dinner. It is made of a variety of dried fruits, fresh apples, carrots and nuts, mixed together with brandy, egg, suet, treacle and spices such as cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger. It is extremely sweet and rich but absolutely delicious. In times of old, the pudding would be aged for months to increase the flavour, though from experience I can well say, that one month or even two weeks are sufficient, taking into consideration, that today, hardly anyone has still a larder in the house that provides the perfect conditions to store such an item over a long period of time.

Gingerbread is a kind of biscuit that is, surprise!, made with ginger and is also traditionally served around Christmas.

(7) Considering the fact that Emma is in the habit of wearing a hooped skirt, one can easily assume that she revealed quite a bit of herself to Aldwin, who obviously is in a position to look underneath it. Especially if one also considers, that Victorian bloomers were open at the crotch… Their embarrassment is well justified, I would say.

In case you are wondering, from where he is sitting, all Sherlock can see is basically the other, 'decent' side of things.

(8)Ah, steam trains – seriously, what boy is not fascinated by them? At that time, England had the most advanced rail system in the world. Were my son now sitting next to me, he would explain in detail how a steam engine works, but alas, he is not and the way I would explain would be so tediously lengthy, that I will spare you and me the trouble of attempting it. So, I will just give the link to the Wikipedia site instead: wiki/Steam_locomotive.

(9) Yes, another thing that might sound odd today: people sharing a bath. Again, in this case, the two brothers sit in it together, because of both of them needing to warm up, obviously. So it is only Aldwin, who takes his bath later – and yes, in the same water. Preparing a bath was, as already indicated, not just a matter of opening a tap, so the whole family would use the same water one after the other, to clean themselves.

Also, Victorians are supposed to be prudes, yes, I know, but that mainly applied to the behaviour towards the other sex. Women were, in general, more sheltered, but for boys and men, there were various situations, where they would see another boy or man naked. Mycroft, for example, attends a boarding school, were most certainly not each and every boy had their own bathroom to wash in. There also were communal bathhouses, so even the people not fortunate enough to have their own bathroom, could clean themselves and again would see their fellow men naked. And cleanliness was very important to the Victorians... So, after all, there is no reason to assume, that Aldwin would not take a bath, while his nephews were still dressing in the same room.

If someone took offence with that, I am sorry, it was not intended to imply that Aldwin Holmes is behaving indecently towards the children under his care.

(10) This is actually not an overstatement! So please, never ever go into a paddock where there is a ram kept, especially not, if the animal does not know you. An encounter can be painful in the best case and deadly in the worst. Some rams can be extremely aggressive, especially during mating season and while the lambs are born, and are to be reckoned with. Depending on the breed of sheep it can be easily a bulk of more than 15 st. (or 100 kg / 220 lbs) that comes at you with considerable speed, a skull that is made to butt together with another equally equipped one and an impressive set of horns. We keep a very docile ram of a smaller breed of sheep and still, if he is in a bad mood, you would not want to cross paths with him, believe me.

The trick Mycroft uses might work, but it might just as well not.

And before I forget it, a ewe who just had a lamb is also very protective of her offspring. Unless the animal trusts you, it is certainly the wiser decision to stay away.

(11) Snuff is very finely ground tobacco that is snuffed into the nose and the nicotine thus consumed. Yes, I know it appears to be quite weird, that Aldwin does not get angry at his nephew obviously taking snuff, but only for the reward being this ridiculous in comparison to the risk involved. Then again the attitude towards drugs and especially tobacco was much laxer than it is today. With Mycroft being thirteen, he might have already been offered snuff or a cigar by an adult without anyone taking offence.

(12) Meant is one of those spinning tops where one wraps a thread around and then pulls it to get it spinning. Usually, this thread is attached to a small stick and used to whip the top so it keeps on spinning. It needs quite a bit of practise.

(13) Particularly coal burning stoves could take a fairly long time to heat up once they went out completely, so one method to make heating up a stove easier was to foster the embers, meaning that they were kept at a point, where they were glowing but did not actually burn, meaning the oxygen supply inside the stove was kept at a minimum. Of course, once in a while some more coal had to be added so it would not burn out, this is what Sherlock is sent to do here.

(14) Plastics were known, but not widely spread and nothing we would recognise as plastic today so that for the purpose of covering something to keep it dry they used waxed or tarred sheets of cotton. So what Alfie and Sherlock use for sliding down the hill are more like snow gliders, not actual sledges. I am not entirely sure about the properties of a greased wooden board – though I am sure it will slide, with a plane I know for a fact that it does the trick and is steerable by shifting one's weight.

(15) Remember, there was no telly and no radio. So telling stories or reading books aloud was fairly popular. - As well as making music, of course, or playing games.

(16) The village is purely fictional though in my mind it is located in Sussex near the town of Lewes.


	4. Two knights to the rescue

**Two knights to the rescue**

The sun was shining brightly after the downpour earlier this morning. Longingly Sherlock Holmes stared out of the window, paying little attention to what his uncle had just said. There was a blackbird in the tree that was busy building a nest, which was decidedly more interesting to watch than to follow the spelling competition the young teacher saw through at this instant.

"Sherlock - oscitancy?"

Waking from his daydream the little scatter brain stared wide-eyed at the smirking young man at his desk.

"What?" he stammered, confused by the sudden interruption of his thoughts.

"It should be 'excuse me', not 'what'! - Sherlock, would you be so kind, as to spell the word oscitancy." now Aldwin Holmes raised his eyebrows and the penny dropped with his seven-year-old nephew.

"Oh! Of course. - O. S. C. I. T. A. N. C. Y.." he stammered but spelt the word correctly nonetheless.

"Good, your oscitancy does not seem to interfere with your ability to actually spell the word." the man replied dryly. "But I would prefer it if you could pay a little more attention and be more vigilant."

"Yes, Uncle Aldwin." was the contrite answer, as his gaze turned back to the nesting blackbird.

It did not escape the uncle, but it would have to do to scold the boy later.

"Ian, could you please spell your name?" Ian was the youngest of the children, now that the new term had begun and he still struggled with the concept of reading and calculating – and fitting in.

The boy looked confused and scared despite the friendly tone his teacher had adopted. Ian was terribly shy and this was even more pronounced as his family had only recently moved to Langfield and as yet he had to find friends. Sherlock who sat on one side of the boy turned towards him and at last away from the window and helped him out.

"Thank you," the little boy whispered in gratitude, a coy smile on his bespectacled face.

"No problem."

Janet, who sat on his other side, grinned at him, her eyes gleaming. Since the winter she had grown bolder and was now a fairly regular companion of Alfie and himself and it had already come in handy a couple of times to have a girl around. Of course, some things were not for girls, but then again, she had made it perfectly clear that some things were also not for boys. Bummer! It also helped their friendship, Sherlock thought to himself, that she had shifted her attentions to his best friend, who received them with more gratitude than he had. - Though truth be told, one could hardly take them with any less appreciation than he had shown. As friends, they worked well together, but really, these romantic notions were not for him. He would only marry when he found a girl so pretty he could not take his eyes off of her and even though Janet was pretty, she was not handsome enough to tempt him (1). Having nothing better to do, as now Carol Brown struggled to spell 'embroidery' (she was not very clever, Sherlock noticed), he continued to pursue the matter, what kind of wife would suit him – sometime in the very distant future. If he would marry, his wife would need to be smart and kind, especially to their children, and funny and love him back dearly - and not kiss him on the mouth! And if she also liked to solve mysteries, the better. Having settled the matter sufficiently, for the time being, his gaze wandered back to the bird in the tree in front of the window. He had been watching it for the past few days, fascinated how the nesting proceeded.

"Sherlock it will not do if you only rely on your perceptibility..."

Waking from his daydreams once more he had only taken notice of the last word and promptly began to spell it.

"Well, that proves my point I would dare say." Aldwin Holmes smirked. "What I actually wanted to say – and this is an advice for all of you – is, you need good knowledge, pay attention and be perceptible to get on in life. If you add a pinch of common sense to it, the better. For now, I release you and see you all tomorrow."

The children piled out, most of them to rush home for lunch and then back out and onto the fields where they had to help their parents during the planting season that was in full swing now (2). And even though Mrs Nichols was of the opinion that too much of a fuss was made about working the land and stated that she had not set up the school, so the lessons would end at lunch already. Her young schoolmaster though, knowing it made little sense to talk to an almost empty schoolroom – as he was certain that the parents then would just keep the children at home completely - had chosen to ignore her. Admittedly, Aldwin Holmes had first thought about starting lessons a bit earlier, only to be told, that the farmers' children were needed for feeding and milking and so forth and could not be spared (3). He left it at that, and so the children were free to help with the field work in the afternoon.

It was not much different in the Holmes household, though on a smaller scale, of course. The garden needed tending and this meant, as soon as Sherlock and his uncle had eaten, they would go outside and dig up their vegetable patch (4). The potatoes needed to go in, as did the beans and the turnips, the strawberries needed padding (5) and Mr Summers had promised to deliver a cartload of manure today as fertilizer, which meant the digging would not just be harder, but also smelly work (6).

They were lucky, Emma in her industriousness had prepared a load of sandwiches and made a jug of peppermint lemonade (7). It was delicious, and so in high spirits, they went outside and got to work. Aldwin digging, Emma padding the strawberries and Sherlock picking out the weeds all the while whistling to himself. An hour into their work the promised fertilizer arrived and when the huge Shire horse had been unhitched and led away, the young teacher climbed up onto the cart and shovelled the manure onto the freshly dug patch of earth, ordering his nephew to spread it evenly with a rake.

The weather this April had been particularly fine, with only little bouts of frost and neither too dry nor wet weather. If it stayed this way, the crops would be good this year, the young farmer thought, once again not paying much attention to what he was doing – or rather where he stepped. He had put down the rake for a moment, to help his uncle remove the side of the hay cart (8), so work would be easier as the load was emptied out. In consequence, when turning around and walking back onto the dug up garden Sherlock Holmes found, to his dismay, that vigilance even regarding an inanimate object could be essential as with vigour his left foot stepped right onto the pronged end of the rake and thus his head made painful acquaintance with the tools handle.

"Ouch!" he cried out, holding his nose, which instantly began bleeding.

"What happened?" Emma asked, worriedly turning around to him and seeing him bleed, all but fainted.

The unlucky fellow stared at her confused, till his uncle, who had swiftly jumped down from the cart, his face, boots and clothes soiled, answered in a bemused voice: "She can't see blood it appears." Before walking over to her and helping the girl sit up against one of the apple trees.

The boy looked amused, till he gasped in pain again.

"This really hurts!" Sherlock tried to state as casually as he could manage, but in fact, the child struggled to keep his tears at bay, which only lasted for so long. Once the first drop had made its way down his cheek others followed.

"Let me see, Sherlock." the man ordered gently, wiping his hands on the bottom of his rough work trousers while his nephew hesitantly lowered his blood-smeared hands.

"What's with Emma?" he mumbled, as his uncle put one finger under his chin to lift his head a little.

"She'll be all right, but it looks as if your nose might be broken." Uncle Aldwin sighed. "Come, let's go and see Mr Riley, lest you end up with a crooked nose."

It was fortunate that his uncle's diagnosis was an incorrect one. His nose was only dislocated and all it needed was a hefty yank to get it back into shape. But still what a stupid accident! Why could he not have fought a giant, or at least another boy? No, it, of course, had to be a plain garden rake – and it was sad to say it had even won.

With a fairly silly looking bandage, that was supposed to keep his nose in place with the aid of a wooden splint, Sherlock was scrubbed clean by his uncle as soon as they had gotten home and then put into bed as the apothecary (9) had recommended. The little tyke felt wretched and dizzy on top of that, and he was quite happy to put his head down. His nose still hurt badly and he could only breathe through his mouth, as Mr Riley had shoved up some cotton gauze up his nostrils to stop the bleeding. What had started as a fairly good day, had turned into a most unpleasant one.

It was needless to say, that the next morning at school, which his uncle had insisted he was fit enough to attend, he was made sport of. Even Alfie could not refrain from grinning, even though for only the shortest of moments. But the humiliation was complete. It went so far, that he even zealously followed the lessons for once and the blackbird had to work on his nest without a spectator.

There was, however, one point of joy in all of this. When Sherlock arrived home, Emma waited for him with a big bowl of chicken stew and then told him, that Mr Snuffles had returned and was back in his usual hiding place in their garden shed. As he rushed around the corner to greet his prickly little friend, he heard Uncle Aldwin's voice from behind:

"What would you say to an excursion, Sherlock?"

"An excursion?" his nephew asked curiously, being all ears.

"Yes, on Mayday."

"But I thought there is a dance here, on the green?" Sherlock had overheard a few girls mentioning it, and also giggling as they thought about dancing with their young and quite handsome teacher.

"There is – and I would love to avoid it." Aldwin grinned lopsidedly. "Unless you want to dance with Janet, that is," he added with a smirk.

Sherlock glared at him before he started laughing: "No, thank you. I have had quite enough of girls. Janet is all right, though."

His guardian looked at him thoughtfully, before chuckling at the little imp before him, with his wry expression and the still bandaged nose.

xxx

Mayday came ever so close and now was only a week away. Sherlock looked forward to the ramble as the girls at school became increasingly annoying with their chatter about dancing and flowers and ribbons – it was hard to bear (10). Even Janet had begun to roll her eyes, and that had to say something indeed, as, after all, she was a girl.

But so, every night, when the boy had been put into bed, Uncle Aldwin prepared for their outing, once in a while dropping a hint as to what they would be getting up to and thus making his little nephew burst with curiosity. But no matter how much the little rascal tried to find out what was in store for him, those well-placed tidbit's of information was all his uncle was prepared to reveal and to the nephew's dismay, the man seemed to take quite a pleasure in rousing his inquisitiveness.

When Mr Summers passed by the evening before their planned excursion to ask when he shall expect them, Sherlock could hardly sleep. Surely his uncle did not intend to just walk over to Kerkhill Farm. Or did he? What the little boy in his excitement had missed, was, that Mr Summers had actually brought something over, something that his uncle quickly hid in the disused pigsty of their small farmstead (11).

But, again, no matter how much he pestered the man, Aldwin Holmes just smiled mischievously, pretending not to know what his little charge was on about and so it was almost midnight, when little master Holmes finally fell asleep, once more rotating around himself as if he were a spinning top. But his mind was restless and so was his whole little person.

He was awake with the first light and skidding out of bed he scampered downstairs only to find Emma still fast asleep. At first, he was confused and then the impatient little boy thought that perhaps she had overslept. But as it was, it was only four o'clock in the morning and grudgingly he was sent back to sleep for at least another two hours. Too wound up to lay down again, he pushed his chair towards the window, opened it and watched as the sun rose in spectacular shades of red, purple, pink, orange and yellow. The birds sang and indeed, not a soul was stirring yet. His elbows propped up on the windowsill, Sherlock watched the world outside awaken.

This was how his uncle found him. Fully dressed, sitting at the window, head lying on his folded arms - fast asleep. With a smile of deep affection, the young schoolteacher walked over to him, gently waking him up.

"Oh, I did not sleep at all!" his nephew exclaimed flustered, making the man laugh.

"Of course not, Sherlock, I could see you were only thinking very hard… - and with your eyes closed as to not get distracted."

Breakfast was a hurried affair and they had hardly finished, when, not able to restrain himself any longer, Sherlock Holmes jumped to his feet, almost dashing outside even though he still had not the slightest idea where they would be going.

"You are such an impatient little rascal." was Aldwin's head shaking remark as he put on his boots and reached for his jacket, while himself still chewing on his last bite of toast. "Will you calm down for a moment and give poor Emma the chance of packing our provisions? A real adventurer needs to prepare thoroughly what he needs to take with him, lest he ends up taking his cuckoo-clock instead of the chicken pie."

He would not admit it, but he was just as eager to get going as his nephew was. After all, he had not sat on a horse for a good many years. - Just that the little imp bobbing up and down before him, did not know this yet.

"Why are we going over to Kerkhill Farm?" Sherlock wondered as the two adventurers, their handcart in tow, made their way across the small brook that divided the two properties, using the makeshift bridge Sherlock usually used to get the milk.

"You really are an impatient little bugger indeed. Can you not just wait for once?" Aldwin scolded without being serious, looking unusually rustic and informal in his breeches and riding boots.

This alone should have given the boy a clue, but alas it did not and so to Sherlock's surprise they were greeted at the farm by Peter holding a pony by its headstall with one and a horse with his other hand, both all saddled up.

"We are riding?" Sherlock gasped in surprise, at last, realising that the outing might actually lead them further than he had dared to anticipate.

"Yes." Aldwin Holmes smirked, patting the horse's neck in appreciation.

It was not the massive animal the farmer used to plough (12) his fields, but the one which usually pulled his small gig (13) when going into town or visiting friends and family. Still a young horse, it was a lively beast with glossy dark brown fur and white markings and quite a temperament.

"Can you ride?" his nephew blurted out incredulously, seeing the young gelding (14) prance about almost as impatiently as he had been for the last couple of days.

"Of course I can ride. What do you think I have riding boots for?"

As if to prove it, he took hold of the reins and mounted the horse with surprising ease. - Well surprising to his nephew at any rate. But it was very obvious this was not the first time, Uncle Aldwin had sat on a horse, he rather looked as if he belonged there. With ease, he managed to control it leading it around the courtyard twice before dismounting again and fixing the saddle bags – which Mr Summers had brought over the previous night – to the saddle of both the horse and the pony. Suddenly his uncle, this reliable and open man, became an enigma to his flustered seven-year-old nephew and at the same time his respect for the man increased if this was at all possible as he adored his uncle as it was.

Helping Sherlock to mount the pony, Peter waved them farewell and they took off, missing the two people rounding the house just as they turned into a lane that would lead them away from the village.

xxx

They passed the back of Crewe Farm and carried on southward towards Lewes, which was perhaps eight miles from Langfield, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if they were going there. He had always wanted to visit the castle there since at school his uncle had told them all about it. How it had been built almost eight hundred years ago right after the conquest and that it had never been destroyed by battle and thus served as a very good example of how it would have looked originally (15). The homework on it had been an essay on how everybody imagined life in a castle and while Sherlock and Alfie had imagined themselves to be brave knights fighting for freedom and honour, as had most of the boys, the girls had imagined themselves as the young damsels waiting for their knight in shining armour. Apart from Janet, that is, she had taken a more realistic view and had seen to the stock and comforts of the inhabitants while practising to shoot with a bow and arrow herself and sharpening her dagger, lest anybody might enter her room without previously knocking on the door. In his opinion, the boys, with the exception of Janet Brickley, had written the more interesting works. Seriously, who needed a pretty woman sitting in a tower doing nothing but embroider stuff and wait for a chap they had never even met before?

But alas, they made a turn and rounded the small market town to the north of it crossing fields and paddocks in the process till they reached a neat little manor house of red brick, parts of the moat still surrounding it and ivy climbing the walls. After having dreamt about Lewes Castle this was not quite what the small adventurer had been hoping for. But as it was, he barely had the time to be much disappointed, as with something akin to a battle cry a boy of roughly the same age as himself darted towards them swinging a wooden sword, upturned saucepan on his head.

"Who invades this sacred land?" he shouted, not managing to look entirely serious. Behind him, a stout and exasperated looking man came running rounding a corner, wringing his hands, trying to say something to the boy he was obviously responsible for, but being too out of breath to do so.

Bewildered Sherlock glanced about him and caught his uncles amused expression as he dismounted his horse with astonishing ease considering they had been riding for a good three hours and truth be told, his own backside hurt considerably by now.

"Hello, Sir Cedric." Aldwin Holmes greeted, bowing courteously to the child.

"Good day, good Sir, state your business!" was the rascals reply, while the chubby man, at last, had made it to his side, breathing heavily, yet still promptly beginning to scold the fierce looking knight with his wooden sword.

"Master Cedric, how often did I tell you to NOT attack any visitors?!"

"Often." was the not in the slightest remorseful reply, while with a clank the saucepan fell onto the freshly raked gravel.

Aldwin's mouth twitched suspiciously, as did the flaxen-haired boy's and when on top of that Sherlock tried to dismount his pony, at which he was decidedly less elegant than his uncle and thus, with his foot stuck in his stirrup, ended up on his backside instead of his feet, the laughter was inevitable.

"Holmes, really!" the strange man seemed incredulous, his face turning a prominent shade of red.

"Oh come now, Burns, you must see the funny side of it for sure?"

Glancing from his pupil to his former colleague and to the little boy rubbing his backside at last even he could not help a grin spreading across his face.

"All right, all right, I admit it, we are a strange bunch of misfits."

"And we are on to an adventure. Are you ready boys?"

Of course, they were, what a question to ask at this point?

Rounding the two grown-ups Cedric reached out his hand to help Sherlock free his entangled foot and get to his feet. Cedric Stephrey (16) had a good-natured face, but there was a decided waggishness about him showing through his glittering eyes and the rascally smirk he sported. He was well dressed and by the way, he behaved it was pretty obvious he was the son of the house. But he was neither arrogant nor vain and Sherlock liked him immediately.

As they stabled their mounts, as from now on they would venture further on foot, a young woman joined them and from the resemblance she bore to the boy it was again easy to conclude that she was his mother, despite her hair being a lot darker and her eyes not blue but rather a dull shade of grey. She was a graceful woman with a gentle smile and for a moment Sherlock Holmes missed his own mother dearly, wondering if she, too, had been this kind and loving towards him. Lady Margaret (17) handed her son the satchel she had packed for him, and, to the boy's embarrassment, kissed him good-bye.

xxx

The sun stood high in the sky when they reached a small lake in the middle of an equally small copse on the Stephrey's grounds. The ground was covered in a mass of bluebells (18) and bees were humming around along some early butterflies feeding on the nectar. With some very old trees among the rather fresh undergrowth, it seemed like a magical place and neither of the two rascals would have been surprised to spot a fairy or two (19).

"What are we to do now?" Cedric enquired, putting down his rucksack and wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

It had indeed become uncommonly warm and sticky and thus it was a great relief when Uncle Aldwin exclaimed that first of all, they would picnic, before setting up camp.

"What do you mean with setting up camp?" Sherlock now wanted to know, also plunking down his satchel.

"Exactly that. Two adventurers like yourselves need to learn of course, how to survive in the wild, do they not?"

Mouth agape both boys nodded. Whatever they had expected, it was not this.

It was a fine feast they had, feet dangling in the cold water, birds twittering above in the trees and the sun warm enough to have them discard their jackets as well as their shoes and socks. As the boys ventured into the woods to collect as much wood as they could, Aldwin began preparing a hearth, carefully cleaning away the dry leaves and branches and building a circle of stone so the fire would not spread (20).

With growing eagerness, the boys then built a shelter from nothing but sticks and as Aldwin had pointed out, a lookout was always handy to have when on a mission and so they found a sturdy enough branch with a fork where they build a platform from some more loose wood, tied together with a rope. It was a fairly tricky business to climb up the tree with the wood they had collected, till after about the third time up, Sherlock got the idea of using the rope to pull it up instead of carrying it. Proudly his uncle smiled to himself as he settled down with his fishing rod, hat pulled deeply over his forehead while still keeping a keen eye on the two little tykes scampering around the branches with as much joy as can only be experienced in childhood.

"You know what? We could use this, to jump into the water." Cedric suggested, as their little lookout was sitting almost precariously above the smooth surface of the lake.

"Or we could tie the rest of the rope onto this branch and swing ourselves down." Sherlock pointed at yet another sturdy branch above them and not waiting for a reply he made his way up and did as he had suggested.

To their utter astonishment, however, it was neither of them, who jumped in first, it was Aldwin (21). Having caught several trout, as the water was full of them, their silver backs glistening in the sunlight which filtered through the fresh green of the leaves. Having gotten rid of his waistcoat, shirt, boots and breeches, he started up, pulled his knees up to his chest and with a massive splash, landed in the cold clear liquid, spraying the two boys.

"What are you waiting for?" he panted as he rose to the surface, looking up at their dumbfounded faces, laughing.

It was an afternoon full of enjoyment. The water was too cold to stay in there for long, but once the sun had dried them and their undergarments enough they sat out on another mission. This time to find the perfect branch to make a slingshot (22) out of and of course collecting the suitable ammunition as well. Slowly but surely it became clear, why Uncle Aldwin had spent so much time preparing for this excursion, as he had everything at hand that they could possibly need and in this instance it was a braided rubber band, which was tied around their little weapons. As a tree was made their target, it took the two little chaps a while till they managed to hit it, but once they had gotten the hang of it, their proficiency even astonished their teacher.

Then, of course, there was the issue of how to make fire. Both boys were fairly surprised that with all his preparations, the young teacher seemed to have forgotten to pack a packet of matches. But Aldwin Holmes just grinned and explained that there were other ways to make a fire. Pulling out two stones from his pocket he showed them to his eager pupils.

"These are called flintstones. In days of old people would not only make fire with them but also tools and knives. If one knocks off the edges, these can become very sharp, but seeing it is already getting late, this I will show you another time. For now, making a fire I dare say, will be enough." (23)

As he gathered some dried grass and moss on a small stone with an even surface he began to forcefully hit the stones together in an odd rubbing motion. They gave an almost glassy sound each time and at long last, they could see the sparks this action produced. Over and over again Aldwin did this, till at last one spark lit the dry grass and carefully feeding the fledgeling fire with more dry grass, moss and eventually small twigs, till it was strong enough at last to light bigger logs of wood. Round-eyed his charges stared in fascination as before them a real campfire emerged thus.

It was needless to say, that by the time the sun began to set, all three of them were sufficiently tired. As they build their little fire each in turn gave a yawn and as they settled to roast their potatoes and the fish holding them over the flickering fire with their sticks in hand, it was only due to the incredibly creepy ghost story Aldwin told them, that they stayed awake enough to still actually eat their food. Without much ado, the children crawled into their makeshift shelter and they had barely rolled themselves up in their rough blankets and their heads had hardly hit the mossy ground, when they were fast asleep, while the uncle, with a heart unusually light, smoked his pipe thoughtfully. In little more than half a year his nephew would leave him on his own to attend school, but at least he knew the little imp would already have a friend there as this was also, where young Cedric Stephrey was bound once the year was out. He could not for the sake of it have it otherwise.

xxx

It was in the middle of the night, that little Sherlock Holmes woke up, at first confused as to where he was. But soon his confusion gave way to a greater alarm as he heard the distinct sound of footsteps passing by and a whispered conversation. Was there no-one on the lookout? He wondered. Scrambling to his feet he crawled out from underneath his blanket and the makeshift shelter, glancing about him. The night was moonlit and he could see sufficiently well and yet, there was nothing – well aside from his uncle, who, wrapped up in his own blanket lay curled up next to the dying campfire, his head propped on one of their empty bags.

There it was again. Whispered words and more rustling as if someone was rummaging through the undergrowth. Now, who would be sneaking about a forest in the dead of the night? Could it be highwaymen (24)? Murderers out to get them? Or even ghosts, like in his uncle's story? No, the latter he discarded as an idea. Ghosts would not be so noisy and whoever was there, was not exactly quiet.

Carefully clambering back into the shelter Sherlock woke his new friend, taking good care he would not make a sound and whispering in his ear he told him, what he had found. Sleepy Cedric rubbed his eyes, needing some minutes to understand what was happening. But once he did, he sprung into action.

"I can hear them, too," he muttered under his breath, as the disturbing sounds still reached their ears. Suddenly a screech pierced the night and something that could only be described as a cackle.

"What are we to do?" Cedric, clearly alarmed, enquired breathlessly as he slipped out from underneath his blanket likewise.

"Of course! Our slingshots..." was the answer.

Searching for them in the dark was not an easy feat, and it was lucky thus, that either of them still had plenty of pebbles stuck in their jacket pockets. Not bothering to put on their boots they sneaked out, and in the direction from where they heard the rustling.

What they saw, made their hairs stand on end. There in the middle of a moonlit clearing two people seemed to be fighting fiercely. As far as they could see, it was a man and a woman, the woman having been thrown to the ground, while the man seemed to hold her captive.

"We need to do something," Cedric whispered, shaking slightly, the knight in him preparing to attack to free the fair maiden from this horrible man, who could be nothing other than a feared highwayman, of that both were sure. Even Sherlock had to admit that the picture before them was decidedly scary. The white of the woman's gown, spread across the dark of the grass, almost glowed in the blue light of the mood and the shirt of the man was shimmering just as ghostly.

"Yes, we definitely have to." was his friend's decided reply as he tried to think of a plan on how to save the unlucky woman from this blackguard of a robber.

"If we try and sneak around to over there," he, at last, carried on, pointing to a spot almost opposite to where they stood, "then we should be able to reach him with our shots."

"But we must be careful not to hit the lady." Was young master Stephrey's reply.

"No, of course not."

Almost like two shadows, soundless and alert the two boys made it to where they, at last, would have a good aim at the man's back. They could not wait any longer as well, as it seemed the girl, who was panting heavily, was in a state of rising agony, once in a while crying out desperately.

Knight Cedric was the first to shoot and to even hit the man. Confused the ruffian stopped manhandling his victim glancing about him with wide eyes and just when the two rescuers thought he would let go of the girl, who writhed in obvious pain, her hands reaching up as if to push her captivator away, he actually carried on.

In a rage Sir Sherlock aimed and hit him in the head, having him cry out in pain and once more stop in his actions. As both boys aimed once more, he turned around and thus the next two shots hit him straight in the face.

"Good Lord!" they heard him shout, as he quickly scrambled to his feet, hands raised to cover his visage, leaving the girl lying on the ground, as she, too, looked about in fear.

Two more well-aimed pebbles were all it took to have the robber let go of the fair lady with her flowing blonde hair, but it was to their great surprise that even in his flight the man stopped to pull her up to her feet before taking her hand and pulling her with him through his way across the clearing, where they parted, her running off in one and him in the other direction.

"We saved her!" Young Cedric Stephrey cheered proudly and little Sherlock Holmes was not any less proud of their achievement.

xxx

"I take it the two of you have slept well?" Aldwin Holmes asked them as he woke them early the next morning.

Grinning the two brave knights nodded, before telling the young teacher all about their nightly adventure. By the time they had finished, Aldwin Holmes could no longer keep a straight face (25). Laughing he patted them on the back congratulating them on their risky rescue mission, though neither Cedric nor Sherlock could see what was so funny about it.

After a hearty breakfast, they packed their things together, leaving their camp with a longing glance, thinking how nice it would be to stay just a little while longer.

"Ah well, I cannot have poor Harry Burns help me out for more than one day." Uncle Aldwin smiled, as he rolled up the blankets and stuffed them into his saddlebag.

"What do you mean?"

"Mr Burns is teaching my class today as I am out and about with the two of you. When we set off so did he. So in a way, we all had our share of adventures, I dare say." the smirk on the young man's face showed he was not entirely serious about his remark, but ruffling his nephews hair he plunked the bag over his shoulder and picking up the more heavy one himself, at last they took off towards the house.

Rounding the manor house they got to the stables, meeting with Sir Charles (26) who seemed fairly bemused by the sight of one of his stable lads.

"Jack, have you been in a fight? You do look as if you have taken quite a beating."

The boy mumbled something incoherently while carrying on with his work, turning his back towards them.

"Oh well, as long as the other chap looks the same." his master remarked, shaking his head before turning around to greet his son and two visitors.

Sir Charles Stephrey was a heavy set man with equally light hair as his sons. He seemed imposing yet trustworthy and there was the same kindness about him, Sherlock had observed in Lady Margaret.

"Aldwin! How good to see you. And this then must be young master Sherlock." he reached out his hand to shake theirs deftly, before turning solely towards Aldwin Holmes. "It is a shame your brother died so young, he was a good man and still so young. What a tragedy!"

As the two men talked the boys went out to play some more, waiting for the horse and pony to be saddled. It took a while in which the two young knights decided to stage a sword fight – Cedric with his wooden sword, Sherlock with a broken off broom handle.

But at last it was time to part as their mounts had been saddled, the saddlebags secured and all of them had taken a sip of the small beer (27) the stable hands were supplied with. It was then, that his uncle's gaze fell on Jack, the stable boy and his bruised face. Round little bruises as if he had been hit by a tirade of pebbles... Staring for a short moment Aldwin's mouth began twitching and he began laughing till tears came to his eyes. Now, this was really strange behaviour, his little nephew thought to himself, wiping his mouth before mounting his pony. With one last swing with his broom handle - sword, he bid his farewell to his equally brave opponent, certain they would soon meet again.

A.N.: So, once again I hope you liked my take on how Sherlock Holmes might have spent his childhood days. Once more this was written for my own little rascal at home, who keeps on asking me for more.

I know Sherlock comes across as a little clumsy in this story, but children tend to have these phases where they seemingly cannot pay attention to anything and stumble over their own feet. Also, if you have read my other stories, you might have found some of the characters in this one to be quite familiar... (If you missed a particular little lady, well, she is eight years younger than her husband, who at this point is only seven, which might explain, why she does not make an appearance in this episode.)

By the way, if you would like to read the ghost story Aldwin has told to the two boys, let me know and I will post it with the next chapter as an extra.

(1) This is obviously a reference to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.

(2) In rural communities, it was not uncommon, that lessons were arranged in a way, that the children could help their parents with the farm labour, often even to have the holidays at those times when there was planting, harvest and so forth. In this case, they only have shorter school days as the school's patroness does not think it necessary for the children to be off completely.

(3) Yep, very often children would be already up for hours to help to milk and feed the animals before going to school. Also, the milking obviously would have been done by hand.

(4) It was a common thing for those who had a patch of land available to them, to grow their own vegetables, so they would not need to buy it. These vegetables would then be preserved and thus would keep throughout the winter.

(5) Padding means to cover the ground underneath the strawberry plant with straw so it will retain the moisture as well as the temperature of the soil so the plants can develop better and more speedy.

(6) Well, this was the most common form of fertilizer and it is still used today, no sh… ;)

(7) Recipe for peppermint-lemonade:

1 l of peppermint tea (preferably made from fresh peppermint leaves)

Brown sugar to taste

1-2 lemons, cut into slices

Prepare the tea, add the sugar as long as it is still warm so it'll dissolve (remember that you'll add lemon later, so it should be a bit on the sweet side). Then let it cool down. Once it is cold add the lemon and some fresh peppermint leaves.

This usually is quite strong so you might prefer to dilute this with some cold water or actual lemonade. Of course, ice can also be added.

So, in the end, it is nothing more than sweet peppermint tea with lemon.

(8) A hay cart had sides which looked much like a ladder. As with many trailers today, the sides could be detached to make it easier to unload them. Here Aldwin first works with the sides on so, not all the manure would fall out and only when it is half empty does he with the help of his little nephew take the sides off.

(9) In most, mainly larger villages the apothecary would act as the local quack. Doctors one would mainly find in significantly bigger communities, though once in while there might also be a practise somewhere in the country of course – if the doctor liked a country living.

(10) There are many many many customs regarding Mayday celebrations, varying throughout the country. But very often they would consist of a dance around the maypole, as I imagined it would have been in Langfield.

(11) The Meadows is not a farm as such, but more of a small croft, where people mainly laboured to sustain themselves. In this instance, the Holmes' don't keep any animals aside from the cat Scarecrow, though I think later on I will have them keep some chickens and other poultry, as Emma seems industrious enough to be willing to look after them and perhaps earn a little extra by selling the surplus of eggs.

(12) As there were no tractors, ploughing would be done with the help of either bulls, oxen, or horses. There were also traction engines which worked with steam, much like a steam locomotive, which were used in farming from quite early on in the 19th century. But a common farmer would hardly be able to afford such an expensive luxury, so for a long time, they were only found on big estates.

(13) A gig is a small horse-drawn carriage with the driver's seat higher than the shafts with which it is hitched onto the horse. As the seat is so much higher, they can be fairly tricky to drive as in a narrow curve they have a tendency to topple over.

(14) A gelding is a castrated male horse. Stallions can be extremely temperamental while geldings are much more docile and calm and make for good riding horses.

(15) Lewes Castle was built in 1069 by William de Warenne, who was the son in law of William the Conqueror. It is a typical motte and bailey castle (well, perhaps not so typical considering it has actually two mottes). As stated in the story, I could not find any reference to a battle there, so if somebody knows any better, please let me know, so I can correct it.

(16) Cedric Stephrey is the brother of Harriet in my other stories and with that one day will be Sherlock's brother in law.

(17) Lady Margaret Stephrey is obviously the mother of Cedric and Harriet, (who is not yet born, by the way) and will one day become Sherlock Holmes' mother in law. But that is another story altogether.

(18) Bluebells woods are indeed magical sights. They bloom between April and May and form dense carpets of flowers in the undergrowth of the trees while their new leaves still let enough sunlight pass.

(19) This is meant as a homage to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who was actually a great believer in the paranormal and with that even in fairies. Who would have thought?

(20) Fire in woods needs to be tended carefully for obvious reasons. Even though one can assume it is fairly wet at this time of year, still an open fire can get out of hand and spread, so it is just as well, Aldwin himself takes care of the precautions to avoid a catastrophe.

(21) It actually is never a wise idea to just jump into a lake not knowing how deep it is, as we find out later, the older Holmes brothers Singer and Aldwin are acquainted with the Stephrey family so I would assume Aldwin knows the spot already or has at least heard about it, as it is still on the Stephrey's estate.

(22) A slingshot is actually very easy to make and has been around in various forms since the beginning of time. In this instance, the boys use a small forked branch and tie the rubber band around the branched ends. It works pretty much like a bow and arrow would just using pebbles instead. I was glad to find, that by the 1860ies rubber bands were invented and available in England as I had trouble finding an alternative for this type of slingshot. I have it being braided so it has a bit more pull and consequently force.

(23) Flint was one of the first materials alongside bone and wood, which was used to make tools. It takes some skill to form them into the desired tool, but the edges then can be extremely sharp. Another use, of course, is making fire with it, which pretty much works exactly as Aldwin demonstrates to his nephews. A lighter back then would also consist of a piece of flint and a piece of steel which would be rubbed together to ignite the tinder with it, and even today many good lighters have actual flint in them to ignite the gas in the very same way.

(24) Highwaymen were, robbers who specialised in robbing travellers, usually mounted themselves. One of the most famous ones is Dick Turpin. With the age of the steam, long distance journeys via carriage all but died out and hence the despicable though the romanticised trade of the highwayman died as well. The last recorded robbery by what one could call a highwayman happened in 1831 so after all only little more than thirty years before this story is set. Then again, for a seven-year-old, it would have been more than a lifetime.

(25) Of course, unlike the two seven-year-old boys, as an adult, Aldwin asses the situation for what it actually was – two lovers meeting in the wood for a tête-a-tête.

(26) Sir Charles Stephrey is husband to Margaret and father to Cedric and later also Harriet. He dies before Sherlock and Harriet meet (again) some twenty-nine years later.

(27) Small beer is a very light beer with a significantly lower alcohol content than normal beer. It was usually given to staff (male and female) to retain their bodily strength while not making them drunk. It has been around since medieval times and was drunken by basically everybody, even very young children. This is mainly due to the fact, that beer was far safer to consume than water, which actually would still apply in the 18hundreds. Due to the brewing the germs would be killed and thus typical diseases such a cholera could be avoided. - Which they could also, at least to an extent, by simply boiling the water. But having said that, germs were only discovered later as a cause of disease and only then people started to develop various techniques to eliminate them.


	5. Aldwin's Ghost Story

Aldwin's ghost story:

In days of old, when darkness fell

and this's not just a tale,

there was a hound straight out of hell,

they said, who walked this vale.

Black was he, with his eyes ablaze and teeth so sharp and fierce,

they said with just one glance at man through his heart he could pierce.

Beware you, lonesome wanderer, he might be still around,

this gruesome creature from beyond, this awful fearsome hound.

And so it was, long time ago,

a maiden walked homebound,

as she had spent the day astray,

she met the fierce hellhound.

Quietly he came to her, not making any sound,

as suddenly he sprang at her and threw her to the ground.

Beware you, lonesome wanderer, he might be still around,

this gruesome creature from beyond, this awful fearsome hound.

With fear, she screamed for help at hand

but no-one dared to fight.

It was more than a man could stand

to see creature bite.

But one man, he was brave enough and dared to challenge thee,

he fought the devil till he fell and also dead, was he.

Beware you, lonesome wanderer, he might be still around,

this gruesome creature from beyond, this awful fearsome hound.

As fog began to wallow up, the hound did disappear

back to hell from whence he'd come and soon to re-appear.

The teeth so sharp and talons clawing

with glaring eyes and hunger gnawing

the hellhound still roams 'round

and if you stray when you should not

he'll come to you on silent feet, not making any sound.

Beware you, lonesome wanderer, he might be still around,

this gruesome creature from beyond, this awful fearsome hound.


	6. A logical conclusion

**A logical conclusion**

„Dear me, it is really hot, is it not?" Sherlock sighed, desperate for a drink of water. But the bottle he and his uncle had taken with them was already empty and they had still a mile to walk till they would reach home.

"Yes, it really is my boy." Aldwin Holmes agreed, wiping his sweaty face with his handkerchief. "And it is only the beginning of summer. Thank goodness it has been raining last night as it has also been incredibly dry these last two weeks, the corn suffers from it, it still looks dry and wilted."

They had gone to the station to drop off Emma who was bound to visit her sister.

"Is there anything we can do about it? Any way to make it rain more frequently?"

"No, not really. You know in some ancient cultures they performed ceremonies to make it rain, dancing around a fire for example. - But I have to admit that I am quite doubtful of the effectiveness of such an action." Aldwin grinned wryly.

Sherlock Holmes laughed, but then fell silent as he began to wonder if it might be worth a try. In some distance Langfield came into view and sighing again the little boy whispered: "I will miss Emma."

"She is only gone for a week, Sherlock. Before you know it, she'll be back. You will see how fast the week will pass. And another three and Mycroft will be back for his summer holidays." Aldwin smiled, though he knew very well what the little rascal was talking that.. He did not particularly like to part with anyone himself, even for a foreseeable time.

"Uncle Aldwin?"

"Hm?"

"Do I really have to go away to school next year? I will miss you all so terribly."

His uncle looked at his little charge affectionately, a sad smile on his young face as he answered: "Yes, Sherlock, it has to be. And you know that. I will miss you, too. Very much so. And I am sure so will Emma."

His heart ached at the thought of little Sherlock Holmes leaving him for months on end. It was already difficult enough to part from his older nephew for most of the year, though Mycroft was seven years older than his brother and soon would be a man. Oh dear, how quickly the years had already passed them by. Sherlock had been three years old when he had taken custody of his brother's orphaned sons. - But Sherlock was still only seven now – so young and innocent. No, it somehow did not sit right to part with him this early. How did parents manage to separate from their children so early on? Now it was Aldwin who sighed. For months he had pushed the thought of Sherlock soon leaving far to the back of his mind and his little nephew's remark had brought it all back to the surface, drowning Aldwin in a flood of sadness. Reaching around the child's narrow shoulders he pulled the boy closer to his side, attempting to explain what he himself did not understand (1).

"Education is very important, my child. It will help you later on in life. One day you will have to find work, earn money – it may not seem important now, but that is how life goes. Someday you will want to have a family, have children of your own and will have outgrown this little village. - And did you not say you wanted to be a detective?"

Sherlock Holmes nodded dreamily.

"Then you need a lot of knowledge, little one."

"Like what for example?" the little rascal enquired eagerly.

"Hm, let me see… - For example how to differentiate between different footprints."

"But I can already do that!" his nephew replied, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, you can see whether it is a woman's shoe or a man's boot and also whether the footprint is rather large or small, you have proven as much, but as with everything, there is so much more to see if one looks just a little bit more closely. See, we are now walking – the road is still slightly muddy and the ground soft, so have a look. How do our footprints look?"

"They are as clear as daylight."

"Exactly, they are very distinguished. - Now run, Sherlock and come back hopping and then let us see if there is any difference in the imprints."

The little imp did as his uncle had bid him and with a red face returned to where his uncle had stopped and waited for him.

"And?" the young man inquired, an eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"Hm, that is curious." his little charge mumbled as he stared down at the imprints he had left. "Where I ran it looks as if I had walked on tiptoe while where I hopped both feet are exactly next to each other and deeper – quite different to when I walk, there they seem to alternate between left and right foot."

"See." Aldwin smiled, patting the boy's head. "And if I pick you up like this, see what happens to my imprints."

He flung his nephew over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes and the boy squealed in surprise and glee. But glancing over his uncle's shoulder he could see that the footprints his uncle now left were considerably deeper than they had been before.

"This is really interesting!" Sherlock cried out. "I never knew."

"That is why you still have to learn so many things, my little imp. And while I can show you a great many things, a good school can do so even better and that is why you will have to go to school."

His head hanging and in deep contemplation, Sherlock walked the rest of the way in silence. His uncle might be right about that, but it did not mean he liked it any better for it.

"Oh, and remember, you will not be alone, you will have a friend." Aldwin reminded him, guessing the little one's thoughts. "Cedric will be there, too." (2)

"It's not the same as being here with you."

"No, perhaps not." his guardian agreed.

The Meadows would feel terribly empty without Sherlock's liveliness and laughter, his tricks and pranks and his unconditional love for his family and friends.

Thus both nephew and uncle had reached their home in a rather peculiar mood and coming home to an empty house was not a cheerful thing, admittedly. But after dinner, as the sun began to set, Aldwin suddenly had an idea.

"What would you say if I showed you how to play the violin?"

"You would do that?"

Aldwin laughed: "I would hardly offer it, if not. I had wanted to do so for a while now, but I have to warn you, it is not as easy as it appears and you will have to practise often."

"Oh, I am not afraid. Please show me."

With his eager expression and the glistening eyes Sherlock Holmes looked as if Christmas had come early, and so Aldwin went up to his room to get the half-sized violin (3) he himself had learned to play on, and the little rascal's first violin lesson took place.

Aldwin was quite impressed by his little charge as the sound the child produced was, for the very first time, melodic enough to promise some success in the future, some ten or so years from now.

"Did I do all right?" Sherlock enquired and beamed when his uncle nodded, trying to keep a straight face. Oh, these wonderful first lessons when the violin sounded like a mix of an old creaking door and a strangled cat – he had almost forgotten about it. Almost.

"Do you think I will be able to play a song for Emma when she returns?"

Now Aldwin was close to cracking up, chuckling: "Well, let us say there is some hope for it till Mycroft returns. Remember, Emma is just gone for a week. You have to be a little more patient."

xxx

The next day was a Sunday and Sherlock and his uncle were on their way to church when they ran into Jack Tull(4), the former farmhand of Kerkhill Farm and now husband of their former maid. The tall, broad-shouldered man glared at them before entering the church where he sat down in one of the labourers' benches to the back of the building.

"I wonder why he has returned," Sherlock mumbled.

"Practical reasons I would assume." Aldwin smiled at him, though a light frown playing on his features.

Since the incident with the apples, almost a year ago his opinion of Jack had altered considerably as well. Where before he on occasion would engage the man to give him a hand Aldwin now either did the work himself or hired another boy, even though Tull had asked him if he could do any work for them.

"I cannot trust a man who has betrayed us so in the past." he had said to Emma when she had asked why he would not make use of the man's help, as the windows, doors and woodwork of their cottage had needed painting and another pair of hands would not have gone amiss. Instead, he and Sherlock had done the work all by themselves – after school. It had been fun though and the house looked as nice and neat again as it possibly could.

Service began and the little rascal's mind began to wander, paying little attention to what was being said, but the more to what happened around him. There were always a few people who were late and some of the servants sneaked out early so that there was always something to see and observe. To the boy's surprise Martin Riley was amongst those being late and with a breathless expression, he sneaked into the pew beside his parents. Then the littlest Brown became fretful and Mrs Brown left the church with an embarrassed and at the same time exasperated expression.

"He is getting teeth," Aldwin whispered when his nephew had tucked questioningly at his sleeve, demanding to know what was the matter.

Kitty Tull was last to appear only moments before service ended. There was little doubt that she felt ill as she was excessively pale and despite her condition looked haggard. Their former maid had barely sat down when Sarah Lynne got up from her seat to get back to the inn. She was maid there and responsible for the cooking and thus often slipped out early.

"Have you seen Peter?" the little busybody enquired as soon as the last Amen had been spoken.

"No, I have not." was Aldwin Holmes' amused reply.

He knew quite well how difficult it was for his nephew to sit still. When the boy was smaller he had had a tendency to simply pipe up at the most inconvenient of times, at least now he kept his mouth shut and only watched the people around him, or pondered on something, which usually led to a lot of questions later on at home.

Habitually the whole congregation lingered, clustered together in small groups chatting merrily when suddenly and with a face white with shock, Mr Brown came storming out of the church.

"The money from the offertory box (5) has been stolen!" he cried out at which each and every head turned in his direction.

"What?!" Reverend Whitwater gasped, looking incredulous.

"Scandalous!" was Mrs Nichols' remark as she frowned at the people around her, looking as if she distrusted each and every one of them.

"Now, now, perhaps there is a simple enough solution to it." was Aldwin's soothing reply.

"Solution?" their landlady and school's patroness screeched, her walking stick descending on the grey cobblestones in front of the church. "Someone has stolen church money!"

Rolling his eyes the Aldwin was the only one who had the sense of walking over to the devastated Mr Brown and ask him what exactly had happened.

"I am not so sure myself," the crestfallen man replied, wiping his face with his handkerchief. "When I just now wanted to take the money out, as I do every Sunday the offertory box stood already open, the lock pried, and there was no money inside nor anywhere around – and I have been the only one in the tower all day. At least as far as I know."

"What has it to do with the tower?" a little voice enquired curiously.

The little chap staring up at him had always wanted to go up there and have a look around, wondering how far he might be able to see.

"Well, one cannot open the offertory box from the front but has to get through the door that leads up the stairs to the tower." was the sexton's reply. "I always empty it on a Sunday after service and put it together with the money from the collection box (6) to be delivered to Mrs Nichols so she can pass it on to the needy."

"And you are certain that when you rang the bell the box was still closed?" the young schoolteacher dug deeper.

"Yes. Absolutely."

Sherlock Holmes was just about to ask if not the Reverend could have taken out the money already when he realised that if that had been the case he would have already said so. - And he certainly would not have pried open the lock but used a key. No, there he stood and desperately tried to appease their patroness, but with little success.

As the poor parson was too occupied it was Aldwin who led the children to their small school for their Sunday School lessons, though admittedly today those turned out to be rather short as the young man was eager to get home lest their food would burn in the oven, with Emma being away.

For the rest of the day both nephew's and uncle's mind were occupied with the incident earlier in the day, but it was only when Aldwin brought Sherlock to bed that they spoke about it.

"Uncle Aldwin, I have been thinking." Sherlock began.

Aldwin raised his eyebrows, smiling, while he tucked his little imp into his bed.

"And?"

"It can only be one of the people who were late or left early."

At that, the young man looked puzzled.

"Why?"

"Because if someone else would have gotten up someone would have noticed."

"Meaning you?"

Sherlock nodded: "And not just me. No one sat alone in a pew, there were at least four people in any of them. If someone would have gone for even a moment, one of the people sitting next to them would have noticed. It's not as if the sermon was all that interesting."

Chuckling his guardian had to admit that that sounded indeed logical.

"There is another possibility though." Aldwin mused. "It was not a local person."

"Hm, that, of course, is a possibility. But there are no peddlers(7) around on a Sunday and I haven't seen any gipsies(8) in a long time either."

"No, me neither."

xxx

Monday came and with it a flood of gossip (9). The stolen church money was on everybody's mind and it took the young teacher some time to restore silence to his classroom.

"Well, it is pretty obvious who has done it, is it not?" George Dean sneered.

"And who would be this obvious thief?" he was sternly asked by his exasperated schoolmaster.

"Well, the only person who has stolen something before. We only have one thief living in our village and that is -"

"Jack Tull." his sentence was finished by Matthew Rodgers, the blacksmith's son.

As Mr Holmes thought it necessary to set a few things to right he postponed the planned English lesson, sat down at his shabby desk and with a frown began explaining that as long as they could neither prove or disprove the deed, Jack should be considered as innocent as the rest of them. What he did not say was, that his own thoughts had run along the same line. After all, the man and his young wife were in dire straits and their baby would be born soon, adding to the already considerable burden. - And he had stolen before. But his nephew had been quite certain that the man had never left his seat during service and he could hardly have summoned the money into his pocket by magic. No, for the time being, it would not do to spread such rumours, no matter what he personally thought about the man.

After Aldwin's appeal the lessons went on as usual and when lunchtime came and the children piled out of the small schoolroom his nephew appeared by his side.

"Uncle Aldwin," he said, gnawing his bottom lip, "I have been thinking."

At that, his uncle laughed: "Yes, I noticed. I would have preferred for you to pay attention to your lessons, however."

Blushing slightly at having been caught Sherlock carried on: "I have told you already, that Jack cannot be the thief and neither can one of the other people who were in the church the whole time, so it can only be one of those people who came later or left early – excepting the ones who were only a minute or so late as there were still a few who came at the last moment, so they would have been spotted slipping through that door. So based on that I have been thinking about who would have had the opportunity."

"And?" Aldwin Holmes asked startled.

"Well, Peter was not there at all. He theoretically could have come and taken then money without anybody seeing him, but I don't think it was him. He would never do such a thing."

Aldwin had not even realised the young Master Summers had been absent. Anyhow, he agreed with his nephew there, but reminded him, that hey would still have to prove his innocence.

"And who are the others?"

"Marty, Kitty, Mrs Brown and Sarah Lynne."

"I think you can safely rule out Mrs Brown, my little detective. She had a crying baby in her arms, had she lingered, we would have heard." his uncle remarked.

"Hm, I had not considered that." his charge admitted, looking slightly crestfallen for not having noticed this himself.

Ruffling his nephew's hair Aldwin sat down at the kitchen table and lit his pipe, while the child bit into a slice of pork pie Emma had made for them before she had left. It was delicious.

Moments later there was a timid knock on the door and when Aldwin went to answer it, he was greeted with none other than Jack Tull.

"I am most sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes." he almost whispered, his head bend and his hands playing with his cap. "But I don't know where else to go. And you are a clever man."

Frowning Aldwin let him enter, his eyes never leaving the labourer.

"What is it you want from me? I have no work at the moment."

"It is not work I want – well, I would, but that is not what I have come here for. Mrs Nichols is threatening to evict us because she believes I have stolen the money from the offertory box. But I swear, I have not taken it!"

Aldwin thought about what he had said to his pupils earlier that day and also what Sherlock had summed up pretty well, and offering Jack Tull a seat and a cup of tea, listened to the young and burly man's plight. And what that plight was, was put into one sentence easily enough – he had not taken the money but could not prove it and needed help to do so.

With a sigh, Aldwin Holmes glanced at him, before with a curt nod he reached out his hand and offered it to the desperate man.

"I'll see what I can do. But I cannot make any promises, after all, I am not a detective." at the last word he grinned mischievously at the curious little boy who had all but forgotten his slice of pie.

"So, do you think we can solve this mystery, Sherlock?"

Eagerly his nephew nodded.

"Then I suggest you eat up and we have a look around as soon as school is finished for the day."

xxx

Their first stop consequentially was at Reverend Whitwater's, so they could have a proper look around and as they did so, one thing became clear – the only time the door to the tower was unlocked and the staircase and the flap of the offertory box were accessible was during service.

"But how does this help us? It could be any number of people – not that I think any of my sheep a thief, Holmes." the Reverend was clearly shaken.

"Sherlock here has a theory. I normally would prefer if he would pay a bit more attention to the sermon, but I think in this instance it might come in handy that his mind is usually occupied by something else. In this instance watching the people around him." Aldwin grinned wryly at his nephew.

"You saw something, my boy?"

"Well, no." Sherlock answered, and at the sight of the elderly man's darkened expression hastily added: "I did not see who did it, but I saw who left or came late and as no-one else left their seats, it can only be either of these people, though we, that is Uncle Aldwin and me, ruled out Mrs Brown already."

"Which leaves a total of four possible suspects," Aldwin explained. "Martin Riley, Sarah Lynne, Peter Summers and his sister, Mrs Tull."

"I cannot see any of them commit such a heinous crime. After all, it is a crime against God." the saddened parson replied, but had to admit that it did sound logical.

"And what are we going to now?" Sherlock Holmes enquired eagerly as soon as they had stepped back outside and into the bright summer sun. The parsonage was always a bit oppressive with its dark panelling and the thick curtains which left in only little light.

"We talk to our suspects, I would say. There is little else we can do."

It was lucky, that they met both Peter and Marty at the small post office where they had stopped to buy some more tobacco for Aldwin and a small bag of fudge for Sherlock.

"Peter, we missed you yesterday at church." Aldwin greeted their neighbour's son.

"Ah well, one of our cows had her calf and she started to have it just as we were about to leave for church, so I stayed behind. And good it was, as the little one caused its mother quite some trouble. Got stuck on the way out and we had to use a lever in the end. Well, at least we now know the bull's too big for that cow. Got to take another one next time around." (10)

If he had heard the rumours about his brother in law, he did not say it, neither did he partake in the gossip that was still spreading like wildfire. This, however, was not unusual. Peter hardly ever spoke more than was necessary and if, never meanly of others.

Marty, on the other hand, was a much different matter. He grinned defiantly at his teacher before tucking the bag of oranges underneath his arm. He little liked his teacher or the man's nephews as he blamed them for his own shortcomings, constantly being compared to them by his own father.

"What, are you an investigator now, Mr Holmes?" he thus asked with little respect.

"So to say. After all, it will not do to blame an innocent man."

"Tull is a thief!"

"He has stolen my apples last year, that much is true, but that does not mean he has taken the money."

"Hm." Marty huffed, glaring at Sherlock. "And what are you looking at?"

"You, obviously." was the smaller boy's matter of fact answer.

"And why?"

"Because I can. So, why were you late for church yesterday?"

Martin Riley stared at the smaller boy before him with an incredulous expression on his face.

"What business of yours is that then?"

"I thought I had explained the matter already, Marty. We were asked to find the thief, so he can be dealt with." Aldwin stepped in.

"What's the police for?"

"Apparently Mrs Nichols does not want for this to become a matter of public interest and I have to say I agree with her. It would be better to bring the culprit before a magistrate and not a criminal court. The crime is a despicable one and yet nothing but a mere trifle." (11)

The youth just huffed and shrugging his shoulders said: "Well, if you don't believe me, just ask my parents, but I have done nothing but sew on one of my buttons which had become loose."

With that he turned around and left the little shop, carefully cradling his parcel.

"I don't like him!" Sherlock exclaimed, remembering all the times the boy had caused trouble. If there was a troublemaker in the village it certainly was Martin Riley and his gang of like-minded ruffians, mainly older boys.

To this, his uncle did not reply, though his expression clearly told his nephew that he agreed with him.

Next, they spoke to Kitty, whom they found lying in the narrow bed in the tiny single room she now shared with her husband, all but abandoned by her family. - Still, she did not look well and seemed in pain and both Holmes' believed her when she told them that she had not been off on Sunday either and thus had been late.

"I have been in pain since Saturday night, but is coming and going, almost like clockwork - so I am not quite sure what to do." their former maid gasped as a new wave of pain came over her.

"Like clockwork?" the young man questioned in alarm.

"Yes, but the cramps are getting more painful and are coming closer and closer together."

At hearing that, the concerned schoolmaster quickly sent his nephew to fetch Mrs Harper.

"Why not Mr Riley?"

"Stop asking, Sherlock, just go. And hurry!" the man's voice sounded almost frantic, his face had turned white and cold sweat had appeared on his forehead.

When Sherlock arrived back with the midwife little more than half an hour later as she had not been at home, it was too late. There his uncle stood, his face a mask of complete shock as he carefully cradled the whimpering child he held in his arms, while Kitty still seemed in pain. Helplessly Aldwin looked from one to the other and at last down, at the tiny baby, he had wrapped in a blood-stained towel (12).

"Is it not supposed to stop after the baby is born?" he wondered, the panic in his voice unmistakable.

"Ah well, it seems you have done my job already." the old woman remarked dryly, glancing at the confused young man with a smile before stepping over to the woman. "Or rather half of it. Why girl, have you not called me earlier?"

"It has been coming and going, how was I supposed to know I was to call you? It is not as if we have the money to call you for nothing." Kitty replied testily, then dried out in pain again, and before Sherlock knew what was going on, his uncle had steered him out of the sticky room and closed the door in his face.

xxx

Aldwin barely drank anything stronger than his tea – which admittedly was very strong, but as they, at last, made their way to the George and Dragon he was truly looking forward to a pint of strong beer and something to eat. It had gotten quite late and his nephew's stomach rumbled persistently all the way hither. It was just as well they had their dinner there then.

Outside the public-house, Jack was shovelling dung onto a cart, despite the late hour but stopped when he saw them approach.

" Have you found out who has done it?" he asked quickly, wiping his dirty hands on the front of his shirt.

"Kitty had her babies," Sherlock announced, ignoring the man's desperate question.

"What?!"

"Yes, you heard right, Jack." Aldwin smiled, though it was quite apparent that he did not envy the man in the slightest. At least not in his current situation.

"Babies? As in more than one?"

"Yes, two. Two little girls."

Stumbling backwards Jack Tull sat down on the half-full wheelbarrow and burrowed his face in his hands. Whether this was a sign of great happiness or despair Sherlock could not tell, but he presumed it was the latter, as his uncle stepped forward and patted the man's back encouragingly.

"It'll work out well, Jack. All will work out well in the end."

xxx

When Sherlock lay in bed that night he thought about all that had happened, Kitty and her babies, Peter, Marty and Sarah, who claimed she had gone straight to the pub to finish her work in the kitchen there. So who could be the thief? Nothing that had been said had been conclusive the little detective thought to himself, chagrined that the solution would not come as easily as he had hoped. While he knew that a calf had been born on Kerkhill Farm on Sunday, he did not know when exactly. Then again, he could not believe it of Peter to have stolen anything. After all the young man was one of the most reliable people he knew, safe for his uncle, Mycroft and Emma. So no, it certainly was not Peter. And his uncle believed it was not his sister either. So that only left the maid and Marty. He was so wound up, that sleep would just not come and slipping out of bed he knocked on his uncle's door.

Aldwin Holmes had not been asleep, but reading, sitting in his armchair in front of the empty fireplace. When his nephew entered he looked up from his book and stood.

"What is it, my boy?"

"I can't sleep." the little boy answered, yawning widely.

Smiling his uncle picked him up and sat back down, pulling the child onto his lap.

"You are thinking too much, Sherlock. One always has to know when it is not worth pursuing a matter and step back from it instead."

"You don't want to find out any more who has taken the money?"

"Of course I do. But tonight we will not find out anything that could possibly help us. So lean back, rest your head on my shoulder and try and sleep, my dear, and tomorrow we see what else we can find out."

With that the young uncle pulled the child closer, gently caressing his hair as he felt his nephew's breath become more even and his eyes droop at last, till not five minutes later he was fast asleep in his guardian's arms.

"Why do you have to grow up so fast, my boy?" Aldwin whispered, unwilling to let go just yet and instead savouring the moment. Sometimes it seemed like yesterday that he had held the little bundle that was his nephew for the very first time, just like he had held Kitty's little baby girl today. So many things had happened since then – good and bad.

xxx

The next morning it was drizzling while at the same time the sun shone through the blanket of dark clouds obscuring the sky.

"Look over there, Sherlock!" Janet Brickley cried out. Both had just arrived at the school's door and upon turning around the boy saw the most magnificent rainbow he had ever seen.

"Is it not beautiful?"

"It is." the deep voice of their teacher sounded from behind them. "Do you want to know how there can be such a wondrous thing as a rainbow?"

"Magic?" Alfie piped up.

"No, its made by God." Janet reprimanded him. "It's a sign."

"That it certainly is, Janet." Aldwin agreed. "But, there is a physical explanation to it and I think it might make for an interesting lesson.

Pulling out his magnifying glass from his desk he began to explain about light and how it can be broken into different colours with the aid of shaped glass(13).

"A prism(14) would be better, but this also does the trick," he said as he stood up and walked over to the window, the sun shining brightly through it through the rain. "Come, gather round and I will show you."

He placed a piece of paper onto the bright spot on Ian's desk and held up the glass, and indeed, as he tilted it slightly the colours of a rainbow appeared on the smooth white surface.

"It is the same with a rainbow. The raindrops break the light into all their spectral colours the and that is what we see."

"I liked magic better." Alfie sighed, at which the class laughed and his teacher chuckled.

"Well Alfred, it is not any less magical just because we have a rational explanation for it. If anything it makes it even more fascinating. But as you insist on magic, how about all of you write me a small story about how they think a rainbow comes to pass or should come to pass? And in the meantime, Ian, we are going to practise your reading."

Ian was the youngest of the children, not yet able to write properly or read very well.

xxx

When school was out, Sherlock took his uncle's magnifying glass with him, just in case. After all one could see so much more with a magnifying glass than with only one's eyes. And so he marched over to the rectory and knocked on the door.

With a smile the Reverend allowed him to have another look at the pried lock, and Sherlock was quite surprised to see how much different the enlarged scratches appeared. Not that it really told him anything. But at least he was now certain, that. No, this must have been a sharp instrument, somewhat pointy on the end for it to fit into the keyhole. A penknife perhaps. Well, he did not know about Sarah, but he knew that both Peter and Marty had a penknife that they carried with them wherever they went.

Stepping into Mr Riley's small pharmacy he came straight to the point and asked the bewildered and slightly amused father of Martin if his story panned out.

"Yes, it is true. When dressing one of his trouser buttons fell off and we told him to fix it and come after us."

It was odd in itself that Mrs Riley had not mended her son's trousers but then again, Sherlock was made to sew on his own buttons as well.

"Only one button?" Sherlock suddenly asked as he remembered that when he and his uncle had arrived at church ten minutes before service, they had already been there.

"Of course only one button, boy. What is all this about anyway?" Mr Riley wondered, getting slightly irritated.

"Oh, nothing. I just wanted to know."

Deep in thought, Sherlock Holmes left the shop and walked back home. There now was something he needed to think over and he did so by rounding the house, climbing up one of the apple trees and leaning against the tree trunk he dangled his feet in silent contemplation. Eventually, he was sure to have found the thief. Not even he needed more than five minutes to sew on a button, and not only had Martin come after his parents, no he had only turned up after service had begun. Considering they only lived across the road there was no other explanation than him having sneaked into church, slipping through the door and stealing the money.

But unfortunately, his uncle was not there when he entered the house to tell him of his conclusions (15). He had said he wanted to visit Mr Summers, so presumably, when his nephew had been out of the house himself, he too had gone.

Bored the little rascal looked around for something to occupy him, the crate with the tinder was still almost full, so no need to chop up any more wood. Walking over to the washing line he saw his uncle's shirt hanging there, dry now and gently moving in the breeze, the stains Aldwin had tried to wash out still clearly visible. Wondering why there had been so much blood anyway, Sherlock examined the shirt carefully before taking out the magnifying glass again. Though it did not answer his questions the otherwise brilliantly white fabric had the same effect than the sheet of paper had this morning when his uncle had shown them how a rainbow worked and curiously the boy tilted the magnifying glass, till the spot of light turned a brilliant white and before he knew it the shirt began smoking as if on fire. Expectantly as to what would happen next, Sherlock Holmes kept the glass very still, only to leap back a moment later as a dark stain appeared and tiny flames erupted from the spot the light had hit (16).

"Oh-oh!"

Wide-eyed the unlucky little fellow stared at the burning shirt, uncertain what to do. By the time he realised that extinguishing the fire as quickly as possible would have been the obvious step to take, the flames had spread to the washing line itself.

"Shoot!" Sherlock cried out and quickly dropping the glass he hastened to get the garden shears that were kept in their shed, to sever the line from the trees holding it, lest the fire would spread to them likewise. Upon returning he found his bewildered uncle, the remnants of the washing line and his shirt at his feet, his penknife in his hands.

"However did that happen?" he asked, not quite daring to look at his contrite nephew.

"I just wanted to see the rainbow again, and then, when I tilted the glass there was a really bright spot on the shirt and suddenly it was smoking and then there was fire. I really don't know what has happened. I swear it was not on purpose."

At last Aldwin Holmes looked at the little culprit, a wry grin on his face: "Well, I have to say you have saved my shirt."

"But…?"

"Look, all the stains are gone now."

Glancing up Sherlock caught his guardian's eye and both started laughing.

xxx

"What I am really curious about is, what you needed the money for, Martin," Aldwin said to the stubborn looking boy in front of him as the next day he confronted him with their conclusions – conclusions he had found to be surprisingly accurate as his nephew had explained the matter to him.

At last, faced with the evidence, Martin Riley had confessed and the whole classroom had fallen silent with indignant shock.

"What's it to you?" Marty replied, lips pressed together into a thin line.

"Nothing. I would just like to understand your actions better – or rather at all. This money is for people who are not so fortunate as you or me, people who can barely afford the roof over their heads or fill their stomachs. You took that money away from them and I would at least like an explanation for it."

"I have none." young Riley whispered, his defiance waning.

It was shortly after their lessons that there was a timid knock on the door and to both Sherlock's and Aldwin's surprise Martin Riley stood on their doorstep.

"Have you spoken to my father yet?" he inquired quietly, his eyes cast down.

"No, I was just about to do that. But, Marty, I would still like an explanation. You might be a bit rough around the edges sometimes, but come now, you are not a criminal. What happened?"

"I have debts, Mr Holmes. Debts of honour."

"Debts? You are barely twelve."

"Yes. I made a wager against George and I was so sure I would win it, that I did not care that I had not had the money to pay up in case I didn't. But it was George who won and now I have to pay. And father always says one has to pay one's dues – especially debts of honour. Where was I to get the money from? My father would not like me betting and losing money."

Aldwin Holmes knew quite well why that was. The boy's father himself had had a knack for playing cards when he had been younger and had at one point accumulated a lot of debts. Consequentially he had moved to Langfield, where the temptation would be but slight and since then he had become a most zealous opponent to any kind of gambling.

"What was the wager about?" the young teacher, at last, asked as he looked at the defiant and yet contrite looking boy. Stealing was one thing, but he had the feeling there was something more to it.

"George said that he could make an egg stand upright and I told him it was impossible."

"Let me guess, he used a boiled one and slammed it down on the table so the bottom cracked and was flat?" (17)

"Exactly. How?"

"All right. Never mind. Now, I think you will have to own to what you have done. The whole class knows, so it is only a matter of time your father, Reverend Whitwater and Mrs Nichols will hear about it, too. The sooner you confess and repent, the sooner you will be forgiven. - But Martin, you will pay back the money."

"But how can I, I haven't got anything and I doubt father would give me any."

"No, and very good that is, as it is you who should pay for it, not your father. But I think you might find a job somewhere, possibly even your father's pharmacy, and with what you earn you can pay off what you have taken – and perhaps a bit on top. And I will speak to George and have a word with him about tricking younger children out of their money."

xxx

When Sherlock Holmes woke up on the following Saturday it was still very early. But Emma would come back today and he was so giddy that he could not stay in bed a moment longer. Climbing out of bed and tiptoeing downstairs he began to light the fire in the stove and began to prepare breakfast. It was a bit tricky as he had never done so before, but he really wanted to surprise his uncle.

And surprised his uncle was as he sat down at the neatly laid out table.

"You have outdone yourself, little one." he complimented his nephew's work as he watched the boy busying himself with boiling two eggs and roasting two slices of bread on the hot surface of the stove.

Only when Aldwin poured himself a cup of tea, adding a spoon full of sugar and taking his first sip did he realise that once more the little fellow had managed to botch things up, yet he had not the heart to tell him that he had put salt instead of sugar into the sugar bowl. But seriously, he would not have it any other way.

A.N.:

So, there now was another adventure for little Sherlock Holmes. Hope you liked it. I know it is not quite as light hearted as the other stories, but hey, that is life – even for children. So, please leave me a comment, I would greatly appreciate it.

(1) Those who also follow 'the adventures of Mr and Mrs Holmes' will, of course, know Aldwin's secret and why with Sherlock especially, he loathes to part. Not that he is faring much better with Mycroft, but the boy is much older and with only him gone there is at least still one of them left at home. Not so with the younger of the brothers.

(2) See 'two knights to the rescue'. There Aldwin introduces Sherlock to Cedric Stephrey exactly because of that reason, so that his nephew would not start school without a friend by his side.

(3) For children, there are smaller versions of the instrument so they don't have trouble playing the notes. Many children start a lot earlier than Sherlock does and thus there are ¼, ½, ¾ and obviously full-sized instruments. In this case, it is a ½ sized violin he starts with, which for a child his age is actually a good size.

(4) Remember, he is the apple thief in Sherlock's very first adventure? He has also eloped with Kitty, the Holmes' maid before Emma.

(5) The offertory box is usually located next to the church doors, so you can put in something as you step out. This money can be either for maintaining the church building or, like in this case, for charity.

(6) The collection box, on the other hand, is normally handed around sometime during service to collect money for charity. Needless to say that it usually brings in a higher sum than the offertory box, alone for the reason that there are so many people present watching what is put into it.

(7) A peddler is basically a travelling salesman offering his goods to the people knocking on their doors. While there were peddlars in cities as well, they are mainly associated with the countryside. Back in the days very often people would get little chance of going into town as it was costly and took time, they often did not have. With peddlers coming around people still had a chance of getting rarer goods than the local shop offered – toys for example or pots, pans, scissors etc.

(8) Politically correct: the Romani People, are a traditionally nomadic group of people living throughout Europe, as well as Northern India – and nowadays in America as well. Today it is thought that they originate from India and spread from there. Many Romani live in Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria, either in the traditional style (nomadic) or settled down (often in very poor circumstances with low hygienic standards and little to no medical care).

With using the term gipsy I intended no insult but merely used the word as one appropriate for the time the story is set in, as back then, apart from themselves, no-one would have referred to the Romani as such.

(9) If you have ever lived in a small village, you will know what I am talking about… - People usually know of your marriage, divorce etc. long before you know it yourself. But on the up-side, as long as they talk about you, you know you are still an interesting person.

(10) Oh, the joys of breeding life stock! As in this case, the calf can be too big for its mother if the bull had been on the larger side (compared to other bulls of course, as they are generally in the habit of being chunky animals…). In this instance Peter has to pull out the too large calf with a lever (admittedly I don't know if there is a technical term for it in English…), meaning he is attaching a rope to the calf's forelegs, ties it around a piece of wood (the lever, obviously) and so pulls it out. Simple physics, really. Nowadays there are special contraptions for this, but I have found nothing that indicated they existed back then.

(11) Very often the local gentry would have the right to speak right over petty offences. Mrs Nichols is not a magistrate, only a meddlesome older woman, but it can be doubted that anybody would have taken offence in her judgement in this instance.

(12) Oh well, how could Kitty not have known? She presumably did, but as she says herself was timid to call the midwife too early, as she would have to pay her and she and Jack are currently barely scraping by. Also, as she has run away, she has not had her 'wedding night talk' from her mother and now has to deal with it herself. One is allowed to wonder why her parents are so unforgiving towards her, but let's say it that way, it is not because of what she has done, but due to how she behaves. With the babies being born now, however, they will eventually be reconciled. It's basically a matter of: You have made your bed, now sleep in it. Also, I am aware that the time she spends in labour seems incredibly long, but first time around it can take a while. (I know what I am talking about since this was exactly the time it took for my son to at last make an appearance in this world. So, a big shout-out to all mothers out there!) Also, they never come out clean...

(13) Here Aldwin is clearly teaching his pupils about optics – a form of physics which deals with the properties and behaviour of light. Nothing, in short, that would normally be taught at a village school. But it actually is really interesting.

(14) An optical prism is generally a triangular shaped piece of glass or another clear material such as plastic, which is used to refract light, meaning to separate white light into its spectral colours.

(15) It was quite common for people to leave the doors unlocked back then.

(16) The curved lens of a magnifying glass bundles the sun's rays and intensifies them in such a way that they can start a fire. Actually the same applies to mirrors, which is why they sometimes come with a warning that you should not hang them in a place where the sun hits them directly.

(17) Ah well, the old trick Columbus is said to have used… Of course, Aldwin would know about that one.


	7. A whole lot of digging

**Okay, so this is not one of the usual adventures, but hopefully still an interesting enough episode in little Sherlock Holmes' life as he discovers how much he still has to learn to become a detective – and a good one at that. That he will have to be diligent, patient, and knowledgeable and that the path to one day become the best detective there ever was, is a stony and sometimes treacherous one.  
Thank you for all your support, I really appreciate it and I am sorry it took me so long to update this story. But in order to prepare little Sherlock for school where his uncle isn't there to ask for guidance, I thought he needs to acquire some more useful knowledge to be prepared for any adventures that might happen when he is from home. It took me a while to figure out how best to achieve that, and eventually, I recalled Aldwin's actual profession...  
So, there we go:**

 **A whole lot of digging**

"Sherlock, have you finished your chores?" Aldwin asked his nephew who currently sat bent over a book of fairy tales, thoroughly engrossed by it.

The young man had to smile. Where before his ward had always insisted that reading was the most boring of past times, suddenly he had found that perhaps it wasn't so very bad after all and the result was, that now, well, whenever he was not at school or up to some kind of mischief or other, he now sat with his nose buried in a book.

"Hm," was all the reply he got as the child turned yet another page.

"Knock, knock, is someone at home?" Aldwin laughed, literally knocking against the boy's forehead.

This, at last, got him some attention and with a confused expression little Sherlock Holmes asked: "What?"

"It's 'excuse me', Sherlock... - I have asked, whether you are done with your chores or not."

"Oh, well..."

"I take that as a 'no' then," the young uncle grinned wryly, ruffling his charge's hair. "Come now, once you are done with them, you can read as much as you like and if you don't dawdle around as much as you did the last few days it won't take you more than half an hour. Now, be a good boy and bring out the ash."

Reluctantly the little tyke closed his book, marking the page carefully with a slip of paper and then got up to bring out the ashes from the kitchen stove to dump on an already substantial pile close to their vegetable patch. Darn, it was really windy! He had no sooner thought so when a gust of wind blew the ash right into his face. Bummer! Perhaps, if he had thought about his task instead of the story he'd just read, he would have realised that perhaps he should have stood to the other side when emptying the bucket. But alas, he had not and as a result, he now stood there coughing and as black as a chimney sweep. Emma would be thrilled, for sure. Yet, the story had been so very interesting and in all honesty, he could not wait to get back to it. Alright, he could well pass on the bit with the princess that needed to be freed from her imprisonment, but how the prince was trapped in a hole in the ground by the evil robber who had abducted said princess was quite thrilling. Though, of course, the prince should have tried to hunt down the robber because he was a bad man and not because he held his beloved princess captive... Adults were so weird when it came to love! And all because she had kissed him – once! (1) Really, he would never lose his head over a woman so.

But anyway, he needed to get back inside and return the bucket and own up to his mishap...

And indeed, his uncle's expression turned to one torn between amusement and exasperation.

"Sherlock, could you please concentrate on what you are doing? It's not so very difficult, is it now?"

"No..."

"Good, and now wash your face and hands and see that the tinderbox is filled up and that there is enough coal in the coal scuttle in the sitting room. Have you made your bed?"

Had he? Little Master Holmes wasn't so sure. He might have, but it could just as well have been yesterday that he had done so... Oh dear!

"Then have a look, my boy."

Washing his hands, the little scatterbrain naturally completely forgot about his face, and what was it he had to do again? Ah yes, make the bed and then... Oh, shoot!

Trudging upstairs he found he had actually made his bed in the morning, so much the better, though admittedly, it could not exactly be called neat. - And the chamber pot was empty and clean also. Good.

Ah yes, the tinderbox, that was it and the coal scuttle. When at last he was done, his face looked even grimier since he had wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his once again soiled hands.

"Dear me, you look like a little gipsy," Emma laughed at seeing the child. "Now, Sherlock, could you just quickly help pump some water? I need to rinse some linens and soak them until Monday so I'll get them clean."

Grumbling Sherlock Holmes complied, asking: "Why are the linens always so dirty in the first place?"

"You tell me, Sherlock..." Emma smiled, handing him a wet washcloth indicating that at long last he was to wipe his face clean.

As a result, the once white fabric turned to a smeary blackish-brown.

"See?" she asked chuckling, holding up the grimy cloth.

"Oops. Sorry."

"No, you are not. But that is quite alright, for little boys need to get dirty once in a while. It's just not right to have them neat and tidy all of the time, is it?"

Grinning Sherlock replied that it wasn't.

"Now then run and have some fun. And thank you."

She needn't tell him so twice, for in an instant he had grabbed his book, reached for his jacket and was out of the door, rambling over to his favourite tree, climbed up it and once again began reading and soon enough had finished the tale and now sat, dangling his feet eight feet above the ground, contemplating.

Hm, it was really interesting how this robber had constructed his trap... Was it really possible to dig a hole and cover it in a way that no-one would see it was there? It was worth a try, wasn't it? What if he would catch a robber that way? Defeat him with his own weapons so to speak. It would be positively ingenious. Tucking the volume into his pocket, the little rascal climbed down from his perch and began looking for the perfect spot for such an undertaking.

The ground could neither be too hard nor soft so that the walls wouldn't collapse nor make it too difficult to dig a hole in the first place, that much was certain, and it needed to be in a strategically good spot. Ah, but of course! Taking a shovel, bucket and rope, for he was well aware that he would eventually need to get out of the hole himself, he began digging close to the little bridge that connected their garden with the grounds of Kerkhill Farm where he went every morning to get a pail of milk. He would just have to remember to walk around his own trap...

Admittedly, the task was much harder than he had imagined. Though the ground was reasonably soft so close to the brook, the first few inches had been compressed over the years, that he and his uncle had made use of this pathway. And by the time it got dark and he was called in for dinner, he had barely managed to get half a foot done. And still, there was no need to hurry, was there?

"So, my child, what have you been up to?" Uncle Aldwin inquired, looking curiously at his young nephew over his bowl of stew.

He knew full well, that when Sherlock was this quiet, that something was going on in the mind of the youngster, and in general it was better to be prepared for what would come next. But as it was, the only answer he got was that he had read and then roamed around the garden a little bit.

"Nothing more?"

"No..."

This answer again was met with raised eyebrows but as it was, at this very moment, the doorbell rang and with an exasperated sigh, Aldwin Holmes got up to answer the door and a moment later Mr Gifford stepped into the kitchen, a bundle tucked under his arm.

"Well, what gives us the pleasure, Gifford?" Aldwin asked, making space for him at the table and offering the man a cup of tea – or beer if he preferred.

The farmer declined both and then, with a deep breath answered: "I came here by recommendation of Reverend Whitwater, who said you might know what to make out of this, for you must know that I've been digging a well in one of my meadows for the old one had dried up... - Well, Jack Tull did. Took him on as a labourer."

He stopped and with some hesitation glanced at the eager face of the little tyke who was just as intently listening as his uncle and then at Emma, who, though less curious, was still interested enough to have stopped eating.

"Perhaps I should come back another time," Mr Gifford, at last, mumbled and was about to get up when he was stopped by his host who had been eyeing the bundle that lay now on the table.

It had a curious form, slightly domed, and yet rough somehow. Little Sherlock Holmes was really curious as to what it might contain.

"I presume you have found something while digging the well?" his uncle at last inquired.

"I have. I asked Mr Whitwater to have a look at it, but as said he was of the opinion that you might be the better person to ask," and then leaning forward he whispered, though still audible enough for the curious little tyke to hear what he was saying: "I have found bones, Mr Holmes."

"Human?"

"As human as you and I, Sir."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Because of this..." Mr Gifford replied, finally opening the bundle to reveal a grinning skull caked in drying earth.

Emma squealed and jumped up from her chair, before taking a deep breath and sitting back down, while Aldwin looked interested and his nephew completely awestruck. Never in his life had he seen a real skull. It did look ghastly as the empty sockets stared emptily at them and yet, the mud that still stuck to it, gave it the appearance as if some parts of flesh were

still attached.

Pushing his plate aside, the young teacher reached for the grisly discovery to have a better look and then did something that his nephew thought utterly bewildering as he sniffed at the remains declaring that they certainly were not recent.

"How can you know that?"

"It only smells of earth and nothing more, consequently it must have lain in the ground for many years, though admittedly the brittleness of the bone would have been a good enough indicator for that as well. But this has been an elderly person, so I wanted to make sure. Bones get brittle with age, you know?"

"But dear me, Mr Holmes, how can you know that this was an elderly person?"

"The teeth, Mr Gifford. Look, the few that are still there are all but worn down and in some places where they are missing, the periodontium has filled with bone, meaning that they fell out during this person's lifetime. Was there anything else?"

"Yes... - this. Do you think this man died of an attack?"

"I'd rather say that this was a woman, actually, but no, the crack you see here has been most likely caused by Jack's shovel, see, the break is almost white instead of discoloured as the rest of the surface. So, what did you find?"

Reaching into his pocket, the befuddled farmer held up what looked like a circular piece of rusty metal.

"Ah, now this is certainly not recent, Mr Gifford. Do you know what this is?"

The bulky man shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"It's a fibula, a brooch if you want that was used to hold together clothing before the invention of buttons."

"Before the invention of buttons? Do you mean to say that they had to be invented then?"

"Just as the wheel had to be invented, Gifford. Yes, buttons only became common during the middle ages and rather late at that."

"How come you know all these things, Uncle Aldwin?"

"Because, before you came into my life, I was a proper historian, that is why."

"But were you not always a teacher?"

"No. When I was younger I was just as much of a jackanapes as you are now, always up to some mischief, sometimes alone, sometimes with my brother - and then I studied history and archaeology(2) before I became a teacher in the end – which I still am."

"And a pretty damn good one, if I may say so, Mr Holmes!" Farmer Gifford laughed, seeming somewhat relieved for reasons Sherlock couldn't fathom.

"Uncle Aldwin, what is an archaolist?"

"Archaeologist, Sherlock. Archaeologists are people who dig out ancient ruins and bones and on occasion even treasure to see how people have lived a long time ago."

"Is that important?" his nephew asked sceptically, wrinkling his little nose.

"Perhaps not, but it is interesting. - And, of course, we can learn from the past. Roman technology is legendary as is the Egyptian one and one can hardly deny that the Greek had a decided knack for science and mathematics."

Now everybody stared at him blankly until, at last, Emma got up to clear the table, still eyeing the skull with some contempt, clearly not liking it sitting on her neatly polished table.

"So, what do you suggest I'd do now?" Gifford finally asked, after accepting the cigar Aldwin had offered him.

"If you don't mind, Gifford, I would like to have a look around and then you can keep digging your well."

"Do you think I need to report this to the authorities?"

"No, unless I find, against all odds, that this was more recent than I initially thought and consequently might be a crime, for otherwise this body should have been buried in the graveyard. But I would be quite surprised if it were, truth be told."

"Ah, that is good to know. I have to admit that for a moment I was worried. For you must know that some years before you moved here, a man went missing and was never seen again..."

No-one replied to that and after finishing his cigar, Mr Gifford left again, leaving his macabre find behind.

"Sherlock, could you please get my magnifying glass while I try and get this thing clean? And then we can have a proper look at it. What do you say?"

"Well, I say I rather have that thing out of the house. It's bad luck having dead people about," Emma remarked, though calmly reaching for her knitting after having washed the dishes.

"That's ridiculous, you know? It's not the dead we have to fear, but the living. But rest assured, I will take it up to my study after cleaning it," and with that Aldwin Holmes disappeared into the scullery while Sherlock slipped out through the front door to retrieve the magnifying glass from his uncle's desk in the small school just across the road.

It was dark outside and the wind had increased to almost a storm, chasing the rustling leaves down the grubby lane. Finding his way around in the even darker schoolhouse was not an easy feat, especially as the magnifying glass wasn't the only thing his uncle kept inside his desk. There was also an old battered looking opera glass, a compass, a set of nautical instruments, various measuring tools, endless scraps of paper, some pencils, slate pencils and pens, – ah, but there it was, at last, the magnifying glass, safely tucked into its leather pouch to protect it from scratches. Upon leaving he carefully locked the door again and was back even before his uncle was done with his own task, still gently scrubbing the dirt from the bone with, much to their maid's dismay, their vegetable brush, but eventually he was done and interestedly both nephew and uncle went upstairs, just as Aldwin had promised Emma they would, to inspect the skull properly.

"Uncle Aldwin, how could you say that this used to be a woman?"

"I think it was one, not that I know for sure. - A man's skull is rougher, especially above the eyes, my child, feel my own forehead, you can feel a distinct ridge there, can't you?"

Carefully the little boy reached out and was surprised to find that his uncle was perfectly right.

"And now feel the skull – hardly any ridge at all. I have to warn you, however, for there are instances when this rule doesn't apply, especially if the individual has been very young upon dying, for when you feel your own forehead, you will find that there isn't a ridge yet either. It only develops with adolescence and there is no way to say, whether a dead child had been male or female once its skeletonised."

"And the age?"

"As I've already said, this person's teeth have been worn down so far, that in the end, they could have hardly stood above the gum. What you see of our teeth is only part of it as the roots are stuck inside the jaws and in order to protect them, the gum grows a little above the roots. Now, these teeth are hardly half the size than yours or mine. And see, here, where some teeth are missing bone tissue started to fill in the cavity just as it would do with a break - now in order to do that, the person must have lived some years beyond losing these teeth. It is as simple as that, Sherlock."

"And here?" Sherlock Holmes pointed at a more distinct hole.

"Ah, there the tooth might have either fallen out shortly before death or afterwards. See, the teeth are rather loose, and with little force, I could easily pull them out."

"Like Mr Riley did with Mr Brown the other day?" (3)

"Yes, but even easier. - Which, by the way, shows, that you should always take great care of your teeth. A toothache can be hellishly painful."

"Uncle Aldwin...," the little boy started hesitantly. "I fear it is too late for that. This tooth is awfully wobbly already."

He pointed at one of his lower incisors looking sheepish.

Grinning his uncle replied: "That's because it is a milk tooth and is supposed to fall out to be replaced by your adult teeth. You see, you are still growing and remember Alfie last year?"

The little boy nodded thoughtfully and then smiled with relief, before reaching for the small piece of metal that Mr Gifford had left with them likewise.

"And what's with this thing?"

"As I've said, it looks suspiciously like a fibula, which is what in ancient times people used to close their clothes with. It will need a bit of attention to make it look like something again, but it is obvious to see that this particular one has been made at least in parts from iron. Gold doesn't rust, nor does silver or bronze, though the latter two do discolour over time. Yet this is rusty, consequently, it must be made of iron."

To his little charge, the thing looked nothing like a brooch at all, if he was honest.

"I know, my boy, that it takes a bit of imagination to see a fibula in this lump of rusty metal, but I have seen many of them during my time at university, some in worse shape than this and over time one develops an eye for such things. It is all a matter of practice, as it is with all things. If you constantly practice multiplication, at one point you won't need to think about it any more, and with recognising old stuff for what it is, it is pretty much the same – unless it is bent beyond any recognition. But here, this unshapely lump used to be the pin and this bit was the decorative part with the clasp, which is well hidden underneath all the rust, I dare say."

As the child, despite his eager expression began to rub his tired eyes, the young teacher decided to tuck his little tyke into bed.

"But I'm not tired at all!"

The yawn indicated otherwise and sure enough, after brushing his teeth with particular attention tonight, the boy's head had hardly touched his pillow when his eyes closed and his breathing became even, showing that already he was fast asleep. With a smile his guardian kissed his forehead and tucked the blanket around him before leaving his nephew's chamber on tip-toes, a small smile playing on his lips and lighting up his grey eyes.

xxx

The next morning dawned with the sun shining brightly and though it had gotten fairly cold, as yet there had been no frost and it was more the wind that made it fairly uncomfortable out of

doors. It was still early, only just after breakfast that little Sherlock Holmes set out with his uncle to go over to the Gifford Farm to have a look at the very spot where the skull had been unearthed. It was kind of lucky that at present the school was closed due to a bout of chickenpox, a malady Sherlock had already suffered from when still very small and which now gave him the freedom to occasionally visit his sick friends. But not today. Today he was far too curious whether they would find something of any interest... - Well, and then there was the fact that though the school was closed for him that did by no means mean that he was spared from lessons. It was one of the decided downsides to having one's uncle being the teacher and that next year he would have to go to boarding school. However, since last night Sherlock had found once again, that there was so much more to the man who raised him and his brother than he had thought. A historian and archaeologist... Who would have thought? Not that he really knew what that meant, but it sounded interesting enough.

With a rope, a shovel and pickaxe as well as a set of trowels and brushes and, unknown to her, Emma's bolter all neatly packed into his uncle's handcart alongside some sandwiches and a stoneware bottle of tea, neatly wrapped into three layers of felt, they trundled along the footpath Mr Gifford had shown them and after twenty minutes had reached the other side of the farmland where a heap of earth showed them where they had to dig.

To the little rascal, the meadow looked like any other meadow he had ever laid eyes on, but his uncle seemed to disagree.

"I wonder..." he mumbled under his breath. "Can it really be? No, surely not..."

"What is it, Uncle Aldwin?"

"Sherlock, do tell me, what do you see over there?"

"Nothing. Well, aside from a slight ditch that is, it looks almost like a circle, doesn't it?"

"That is exactly what I meant, my child."

"But what's a ditch got to do with the skull?"

"Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything, as yet I cannot tell. You know, an archaeologist is much like a detective, you first see what you have, assess the facts and then built a theory – though the one difference is, that one never can definitely prove one's theory to be right, other than a detective who might get a confession out of his suspect, for all the people one might ask, are long gone."

"Like that old lady?"

"Just like her. And still, she has told us quite a bit already, hasn't she?"

"Yes, but how has she died and why was she buried in a field and not in the graveyard?"

"Well, that is what we are about to find out. And though I have a faint idea, as yet, I would rather not theorise but rather gather some more information. You know, it never is a wise idea to start building a theory so very early on without having even remotely enough facts. It closes the mind instead of doing what is absolutely necessary – keep an open mind and built the theory from fact and not the fact from the theory like so many do."

The bewildered expression of the little jackanapes made the young uncle smile and ruffling his nephew's hair he said rather ruefully: "I am sorry, Sherlock, I see I am confusing you and that wasn't my intention. It is just that I have been missing a good dig, unearthing things that had been underground for centuries and sometimes even millennia. I did get carried away, forgetting that all of this is so very new to you."

"Yes, but I'm not stupid..."

"I didn't say you were, Sherlock. By no means actually. You are a bright little fellow and a very fast learner, and it is that which sometimes lets me forget how very young you still are."

"Young? I'm already seven and soon I will turn eight! - And go to school all on my own..."

"Yes, you will," Aldwin replied with a deep sigh.

A mere two months and Sherlock would depart for boarding school... - It was a sad prospect which both of them dreaded. But it was necessary. Emma already took great care that all his linens were in perfect order, that he had fresh stockings and a new dressing gown, but she, too, as of late seemed as oppressed at the prospect of the boy leaving The Meadows as either nephew and uncle.

Ah well, there was little use dwelling on such gloomy thoughts, spoiling the few precious weeks they still had together, was there? With a slightly forced smile, Aldwin beckoned his little ward to have a closer look at the hole in the ground that was already there, neatly dug down a good five feet. To the boy's disappointment, it was completely empty and did look exactly as one would imagine the shaft of a freshly dug well to look like. Not another skull or even a trace of bones was to be seen.

"Well, what did you expect? We already know that they took out what they found, so first of all, let's map down what we already have and know – including the ditch, as slight an indentation as it might be, but now, with the dead grass, it is prominent enough. I dare say in summer we would not have seen it at all."

While Aldwin was drawing, Sherlock rambled around, thinking of his own little 'excavation' he had yet to complete and at last, his uncle was done with his task and called his nephew over to his side.

"So, shall we?" he asked, eagerly running his hands together.

"Sure, isn't that what we are here for?"

Laughing the young uncle replied that exactly that was the case.

"So, then let us secure the rope and lower ourselves into the pit. You are not scared, are you?"

"Of course not!"

This had come out with so much vehemence that his uncle could not help chuckling some more while firmly tying the rope to a peg that had been hammered into the ground, presumably by Jack Tull when starting to dig the well. Pulling at it, it didn't budge at all and even when he climbed down first to catch his nephew should he fall it stayed put.

Whatever Sherlock had thought, he had not imagined from looking down into the shaft, that it would feel so eerie inside of it. The earth was damp and smelled musky, and the whole space felt quite claustrophobic if he were honest.

"You look sceptical, my boy. Are you alright?"

"Yes," was the little rascal's tentative answer.

"Ah, you will get used to it soon enough. So, have a look, and tell me what you see."

Puzzled Sherlock Holmes replied that what he saw was earth and a couple of pebbles.

"Yes, but can't you see that the earth is in layers? See this layer is much darker than this one and this has more pebbles in it than the other."

With some surprise, the little boy realised that that was true. The well-shaft almost looked like one of Emma's layered cakes.

"Have you any suggestions why that might be so?" Aldwin carried on, lighting the lantern he had taken with him and kneeling down, though it made the tiny space even more crammed.

"No...?"

"You see, earth tends to build up over the years. Leaves turn to earth, for example, and when layer after layer covers the ground and rots, slowly but surely the ground rises."

"Really? I never noticed."

"That is because it takes decades, if not centuries to build up a substantial layer, Sherlock. Even should you come back here in, let's say thirty years from now, the ground around here will seem unchanged."

"Oh."

"So, this must have been where Jack has found the skull, for what do you see here?"

This was turning into quite a lesson, though a very interesting one, and for the moment, his trap was all but forgotten, as little Sherlock Holmes bent down to inspect a weird looking stone that seemed to stick out of the hard soil beneath his feet.

"No, this is no stone, it is a piece of bone – see, there it is damaged and you can see the structure within. So, let us try and pry it loose, shall we?"

As if on command, the little tyke reached out his hand and tried to pick up the bone, but it was too firmly lodged in the ground.

"Not so impatient, Sherlock. Here, let me show you what to do: You take the trowel and begin to dig around the bone, at some distance at first, for we obviously don't know what is underneath the surface, and then closer and closer, scraping away the earth until your find is free to pick up. See?"

They worked for a couple of minutes until they had managed to get most of the bone free and to the boy's surprise, it was, in fact, larger than he had thought. The small thorn that had been sticking out, had merely been a fraction of what had been still buried.

"So, and now we can be sure, that this is where the head had been, for this is without much doubt, the first of the cervical vertebrae. That is this part of your body."

Reaching up, Aldwin touched the back of his nephew's back to show him exactly where the bone once had belonged.

"Right, but where are the others?"

"Along this way, my child."

He indicated the direction and merrily they dug on until it was time to go home.

xxx

They went back several times over the next few days, but though it had initially been a very interesting study, the slow process of his uncle's work was eventually bound to have the little imp bored and set his mind to more interesting things – like his trap, that had been sadly neglected for almost a week now. And so it was, that the next morning his uncle made his way over to the Gifford Farm on his own and Sherlock stayed behind, first helping Emma a little, which was always rather fun, and then venturing outside again to, at last, carry on with his own project.

It was safe to say, that Sherlock made a lot more headway, especially since his uncle was too occupied to check on his nephew. Well, Emma was there, but she hardly ever strayed into that part of the garden unless she had reason to and that she actually had, she blissfully didn't know.

The trickiest part was, to distribute the dug-out earth evenly so it wouldn't draw attention, but since the vegetable patch, that at this time of year lay barren, was practically

right next to his pit, all the little tyke needed was a rake to even out the bucket-loads he dumped onto it. Yes, he had chosen the spot wisely.

For four days he had been digging thus when at last he thought that it was safe to say, that the hole was deep enough to keep a robber from climbing out. Yes, perhaps it could be a little deeper, just to make sure, but then again, maybe the robber wasn't very tall and then it would be more than sufficient to keep him where he was. So, the only thing to do was to cover the whole thing with twigs and leaves and then hope for the best, namely to catch the evil-doer, whoever he may be.

xxx

"You might be interested to hear, Sherlock, that I have finished my work. - Which is quite convenient as from Monday on, school starts again. What do you say, shall I make a lesson out of it?"

Bummer! Just when he had become used to not going to school, it had to re-open. But that was how things went, wasn't it? Alas, since he had finished his trap it had become increasingly boring at home, for there was so little to do with Alfie and Janet still being on the mend. Oh, he had visited them, but they had seemed very dull indeed. Not that he held it against them, considering they were ill, but it didn't change the fact, did it? He never liked being ill either. There was nothing so irksome as having to stay in bed and twiddle one's thumbs.

Oh, his uncle still waited for an answer. Right...

"Yes, it sounds interesting. Will you bring the skull, too? I am sure it will scare the girls."

"And perhaps the one or other boy, too," Aldwin Holmes laughed. "But yes, I think I will bring it and then tell a little about the people who once must have lived here."

"What people were they?"

As much as Sherlock had been bored by the slow process of the digging done by his uncle, that did by no means mean that his interest in the subject, in general, had ceased.

Pulling out a small, shabby-looking leather pouch that once had held his tobacco until it had started to look too battered to be used any longer for that purpose, Aldwin emptied its contents onto the table, once more to Emma's dismay.

"Not some more bones, I hope," she sighed, though otherwise said nothing.

"No, no bones, but far more interesting items such as this."

Once more both nephew and maid were faced with an oddly shaped object that was impossible to make out.

"What is it?"

"A knife. And this is a glass bead – look how beautiful it is even now."

Even with trying very hard, all Sherlock could see was a dull looking pebble with a hole in the middle.

"Oh come now, give me a glass of water, will you?"

Throwing the bead into the glass, slowly but surely the grime that had settled on its surface gave way and though it still needed some imagination, the pebble started to turn into something different entirely. As blue and yellow glass, surprisingly vibrant in colour, just like the stained glass window above the altar of Langfield's tiny church, began to show intricate swirls, Sherlock's jaw dropped and even Emma let her knitting sink down onto her lap.

"That can't be that old, surely, can it?" she asked, sounding thoroughly astounded.

"Oh, but it is. With everything I have found, it is safe to say that what lay buried underneath Gifford's field is indeed Anglo-Saxon and with that around eight-hundred to one-thousand three-hundred years old."

"So long ago?"

"Yes, so long ago, Emma."

"Uncle Aldwin, what is this?"

While Emma was still recovering from her surprise, the curious boy had picked up yet another find – the last his uncle had brought home.

"What does it look like?"

"Like a cross."

"That is exactly what it is."

"But where they, not heathens?" Emma asked with some astonishment.

"Some, but most were not and many monasteries were founded during that time – Whitby for example -and since it is almost time for bed, I think as a bedtime-story, I will tell you of Saint Hilda of Whitby. - But only after you got changed and have brushed your teeth lest you forget all about it afterwards, Sherlock."

And so, scurrying out of the kitchen, the little boy with some eagerness did as he was bidden, for if there was one thing he really liked, it was a good story, and his uncle was very good at telling them.

"A long long time ago, England was infested by snakes, and wherever one would tread, one had to be careful not to step onto one of them," he began, occasionally dragging at his pipe. "It was so bad, that people sought help with the church, however, it is said that only those with a pure heart can perform miracles and as it was, such a heart was not to be found. People have always been sinners, and never was that so apparent than in their search for one who could rid them of their plague. They had almost given up when they heard of one woman, who was said to be truly good, of whom it was said, that in all her life she had neither done nor thought evil and that was Saint Hilda. Now, Hilda, initially a princess, had become a nun when she was still a young girl and was, now a woman, set on founding an abbey. Though initially people had not been inclined to help her, when they heard of her reputation of being pure of heart, they promised to support her, if only she would get rid of the snakes for them. She agreed and began to search for a spot where she might build her nunnery, and yet there was no decent spot to be found, for wherever she turned, snakes had infested the area. So, she eventually chose the one that was the worst affected by the snakes, taking it as a sign that she had to overcome this evil, and it was there she had her enclave built (4)."

"But the snakes?"

"Ah, you see, she asked them to leave, which, of course, they refused, as they had done with all the other saints and sinners that had made an attempt to have them gone. But Hilda, seeing that one could just not reason with evil, just spread out her arms and turned them all to stone. - And even today, those snakes can be found around Whitby."

"Really?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know..."

"Sherlock, will you be so good and fetch my paperweight?"

"Why?"

"Just do so, please, I will tell you why in a minute. - Or however long it'll take you to get it."

Quickly rushing upstairs, it was barely a minute later that he returned with the curious looking stone in his hands.

"Now look at it and tell me what you see?"

"A snail of some sort?"

"Yes, it does look similar, I agree. - But, if I add this, what do you see now?"

Uncle Aldwin had drawn a tiny head on a piece of paper while his nephew had been away and now held it to the fossil in front of him.

"A snake!"

"And as it is, this stone I have picked up at the shore near Whitby. Now, does that answer your question?"

"No..."

"Good, I had hoped it wouldn't. This is actually neither a snake nor a snail, it is called an ammonite and it was an animal that lived in the sea hundreds of thousands of years ago – and even longer. But a couple of hundred years back, people didn't know what it was, and so they tried to find an explanation. It is a good enough one, and to them, it must have sounded quite logical, and yet, they were completely wrong. - And that is, why, when we have no evidence to support a theory, we never should just invent a nice story to make it sound plausible, for it is likely false. Obviously, none of the 'snakes' found at Whitby ever had a head. It did puzzle people, but to make their theory fit, they began to carve heads onto them."

"That is silly!"

"It is."

"Uncle Aldwin, when I am a detective, I will never carve heads onto stones just to make them fit my story."

"That is exactly what I wanted to tell you, my boy. And now, off to bed you go."

It was in bed that it occurred to little Sherlock Holmes that everything his uncle had told and shown him over the past two weeks, would be something that he could use his whole life. Well, once he was all grown up and a detective, of course. The thought was a bit daunting. If only he had paid more attention... Then again, to prevent crime was surely just as important than to solve one, wasn't it? With his mind thus reeling, it took some time until he fell asleep at last, and when he was woken up by his uncle the next morning, he was still very tired.

"Sherlock, the milk, if you please."

Yawning Sherlock took the pail from its hook right next to the stairs leading into the cellar and trudged over to Kerhill-Farm. It was drizzling and at last, autumn had arrived with all its force as the wind blew around his nose and ruffled his hair, chasing leaves across the garden. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. With his head bent and his thoughts engaged at what his uncle had told him last night, he didn't pay much attention to where he was going and he had almost reached the little bridge when suddenly the ground gave way beneath him.

"Oh, no!"

There the unlucky fellow sat, having landed on his buttocks which sported quite a bit and stared up the neat walls of the pit he himself had dug. It was too unlucky and too embarrassing, really. But at least one thing was certain, the trap was deep enough to contain him with ease and though the roof had given way beneath him, most of the cover was still intact. Perhaps there was some reason to be proud after all. It had worked. Perfectly so. But how was he to get out?

There was no way he could reach the top without using a rope or ladder, neither of which was at hand. The walls were unfortunately very even, he had seen to that, he would not get any hold there. He tried to use the pail as a shovel to make some footholds, but that didn't work very well either. Its shape was far from ideal and besides, he didn't want to scratch the enamel. And then the rain started pelting down, even more, filling the hole with puddles of water.

"Uncle Aldwin!" he, at last, cried, hoping his guardian would hear him. "UNCLE

ALDWIN! - EMMA?"

Nothing. Of course, they were indoors and he was on the other side of the garden with shrubs and trees in-between.

Why did these things always have to happen to him? It wasn't fair. He tried so hard and always something had to go haywire even when he had thought of everything – well except that he had dug a hole in the middle of the footpath he used to get the milk. Already he saw himself staying there forever, starving, alone, scared. Yes, he was scared and he felt like crying. Well, no-one was here to see him do so, so he could just as well indulge in it a little, couldn't he?

He was still occupied with crying had even dozed off slightly, for his eyes felt so incredibly heavy all of a sudden it was so very cold, when suddenly he heard a soft whisper right next to his ear: "Come my child, I'll get you out of this mess and then tuck you into bed where you clearly belong."

"Uncle Aldwin? What are you doing here?"

"What would I be doing here? I have been looking for you, boy. It is almost midday and still, you have not returned home. Have you any idea how worried I was, when I know full well that you always can be relied on fetching the milk within a half-hour at most? It was Emma who suggested that you might sit out the rain at Mrs Summers' kitchen table, but when I saw that it wouldn't cease raining anytime soon, I decided to pick you up, only to be told that you had never arrived there."

"I'm sorry I had you worried, Uncle Aldwin. I didn't mean to," the young boy sniffed.

"I know. But for now, I think I better get us indoors. As it is, we are both soaked through and in need of a change of clothes, aren't we?"

"Yes, I suppose. But how are we to get out?"

Wryly the young teacher replied: "Ah, see, I almost fell into this hole, that has miraculously turned up in my garden and put two and two together. The washing line was conveniently close, so, I'll lift you out and then pull myself up. It's not as if I haven't done that several times over the last couple of days..."

"Uncle Aldwin, the hole – that was me..."

"Yes, I know."

"Uncle? I am so tired..."

xxx

"Bless you!" Emma exclaimed with a sigh, as repeatedly both uncle and nephew sneezed.

It had been three days since the little mishap with the trap, and as it was, in the end, it had not only been little Sherlock who had come down with a cold. If asked, Emma would swear that the smaller of her two patients was the easier one to take care of, but as it was, she wasn't asked.

Instead, she sat down the teapot and the sandwiches on her master's desk and then left to take care of dinner.

"I thought school was supposed to start again, today," Sherlock mused, snuggling up to his guardian on the wide armchair in his uncle's study – or rather the room he called such, for though it contained many books all neatly lined up on a shelf – and, of late, a skull, it was a humble chamber with nothing more than a desk that had seen better days, a comfortable chair in front of it that could do with a bit of upholstering and said armchair alongside a rather tattered looking carpet right in front of it.

"It would have, Sherlock, if there had not been a certain someone who thought it to be a good idea to dig a hole and then fall into it," Aldwin sighed, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. "Pray, tell me, why did you do it?"

"Well, I read a story where a robber trapped a prince in a hole in the ground and thought that it might just as well work the other way around..."

"And did it?"

"No, I fell into it myself, as you well know."

"There is a German saying, Sherlock: _Wer anderen eine Grube gräbt, fällt selbst hinein_. You proved it to be true, indeed."

"But what does it mean?"

"That if you dig a hole for someone, it is you who'll fall into it."

"Is that another story like the one of Saint Hilda?"

"Yes, you could say so, my boy. But in this case, you can make it work for yourself. The actual meaning is, that if you try and be sneaky in order to gain something or other and attempt to trick a person, makes you vulnerable and what kind of people would usually try and be sneaky?"

"Thieves?"

"For example. So, you just have to find the hole they have dug and with a bit of luck will manage to steer them into it. And now, let's have some tea. Mrs Nichols will not be pleased if I stay sick much longer and I rather have you back in health as well."

 **A.N.:  
(1) No, this is not an actual fairy tale, in case you were wondering. I made it up entirely to suit the story.**

(2) I did check and both subjects were, at that, time taught at the universities. However, archaeology was still a fairly new subject that developed during the 18th century after many wealthy people had started to be interested in digging up old stuff, so to say. These antiquarians were often anything but professional in their approach and often some damage was done and evidence warped to suit their theories. As such it eventually became necessary to take a bit more control creating the subject of archaeology - though for many decades hobby-archaeologists dug merrily on with little regard for historical accuracy or a will to preserve their findings.

(3) Yep, Mr Riley is the local blacksmith and as such, it was perfectly normal for him to pull out teeth... Nice to know that dentists have kind of developed from blacksmiths, isn't it? It kind of explains a lot... ;) (Though personally, I have met more amiable blacksmiths than dentists.)

(4) No, this is not an accurate re-telling of the St. Hilda legend, which mainly boils just down to her having turned the snakes around Whitby to stone, the rest was invented by me, save for that Hilda as the second daughter of the king's nephew, was born a princess.

So, hope you still liked it, even though it was slightly different. - Oh, and that it wasn't too boring. As said, I wanted there to be a learning curve for future adventures when Sherlock is at school. There might be a teacher he can confide in, but I am not sure as yet, so I rather have him prepared ;).  
Please let me know what you think.  
Love  
Nic


End file.
